


Reunion Tour

by St4re4ter



Series: Things That Could Have Been [1]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 17:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/St4re4ter/pseuds/St4re4ter
Summary: "You love a stone, because it's dark, and it's old, and if it could start being alive, you'd stop living alone."---A re-write of the Miracle Mask ending with added characterization.





	1. He Who Fell

**Author's Note:**

> I make the rules now and I say they're gay. Anyway, I wanted to try and build on Randall's character arc because I feel like it started out very strong and didn't quite get to where it could have been at the end of the game.  
> (I double space my paragraphs because I have trouble reading them otherwise, I'm sorry if that's a problem for anyone reading this.)

 

“Is it true, Layton? I’ve heard you have a history of letting your friends down.”

Even from his vantage point on the balcony, Hershel Layton could hear the veiled taunt in the  Masked Gentleman’s voice. It was an invitation, a smug little assertion that said _I know you know who I am_. He didn’t have time to dwell on that verbal jab, however as the Masked Gentleman had risked more than just Hershel's feelings for this “puzzle.” Several stories below him, his apprentice was suspended by nothing more than a hook and a series of ropes that had been draped over and about the yawning, yet tastefully decorated abyss that was the main lobby of the Reunion Inn.

 

“Professor!” Luke called as he struggled pointlessly with the hook that held him ever so precariously. He slipped a little ways down the rope and Hershel felt his breath catch. His mind was spinning and turning over a hundred different possibilities as he scanned the room around him in an adrenaline-fueled search for anything that could help him get Luke out of harm’s way. Emmy scrambled into action somewhere in the corner of his vision, but he had already found what he was looking for.

 

“Hold on, Luke!” Hershel shouted as he snatched a candelabra off of a nearby table and dashed towards the rope. He swung himself over the edge of the balcony, managing to just catch the edge of the candelabra on one of the ropes before gravity decided to send him on a one way trip to the lobby floor. Time seemed to slow as he slid along the rope, each individual path and branch of the hanging maze coming into focus as the rest of the world fell away. _No, no, no,_ he muttered to himself as he crossed each intersection, fully aware of what awaited both Luke and himself if he misjudged the correct path. The weight of his own body nearly betrayed him as he moved downwards along the rope, but he gripped the candelabra with enough steel that he could feel the edges of the decorative piece begin to cut into his palm. He didn’t care. He couldn’t let go. Not this time.

 

Hershel clutched the candelabra tighter in preparation as he approached the intersection of rope he had pinpointed earlier as the correct path. _Three, two, Now!_ He swung himself forward slightly at each beat in his countdown, using the momentum to carry his body up and over the edge of the rope before dropping to the segment strung several feet below him. He let out a sharp breath as his shoulder caught the full impact of the motion, but composed himself almost immediately. He couldn’t afford to lose the impression of control for even a moment. His apprentice was counting on him.  

 

Luke gave a small cheer that quickly changed into a startled yelp as Hershel slid towards and then into him, securing his apprentice against his chest with his free hand. Hershel managed to get the both of them safely to the floor of the lobby, but it had been too close.  He put a hand on Luke’s shoulder, for his own sake as much as his apprentice’s. Seeing Luke hanging like that, with nothing but a rope between him and a fate no child should have to think about had stirred something in Hershel.

 

The focus born of adrenaline was wearing off and a multitude of tangled emotions were rising to take its place. Hershel felt his mouth draw into a tight frown as the but did not allow himself to express anything beyond that. He couldn’t let his walls drop now. Not here, not in front of the people who relied on him. He adjusted the brim of his hat, numbing himself to assume to same collected role as always. Eighteen years of emotions, knotted back over on each other again and again sat just below the surface, waiting to break him down.

 

-0-

 

Hershel felt relief wash over him as he and Randall crossed from the threshold of the tunnel behind them and into the open chamber ahead. Various plants clung to the wall, their roots pressing upwards from the stone floor, their leaves straining to reach the beams of sunlight that had somehow managed to make their way down here to the bottom of everything. Water murmured and mumbled as it collected in a great basin that took up the vast majority of the chamber’s space. Hershel could see it falling from the ceiling before it entered the basin and then flowed out of the room, trickling away to a world humans had never touched. He leaned on his shovel, allowing himself to let the weight of the past several hours to rest on something other than his battered body for once. For the moment, they were safe.

 

Across the chamber from them, a single flight of stairs rose to meet a gateway that was surely the final trial standing watch over the treasure of Randall’s dreams, but Hershel didn’t care about that at all. He ran a hand through his hair and turned to face his friend.

 

“This is it!” Randall exclaimed, his arms raised above him in an all-encompassing gesture. His eyes glinted with gold that only he could see as he took a step forward, leaning in to look at each and every detail of the chamber that caught his interest. He traced a finger over a faded glyph on the wall beside him and then compared it to the Azran mask he had brought with him the whole way down, nodding as he glanced between the two symbols. He turned to inspect the roots pushing their way up through the crumbling floor almost immediately after, his attention never staying in one place for more than a second or two.

Hershel smiled warmly despite the exhaustion that blanketed him, though his happiness was a result of Randall’s excitement rather than the prospect of the discovery itself. Randall had always had big dreams, and Hershel knew better than anyone that nothing in the world could stand Randall’s way once he got his heart set on something. However, as contagious as Randall’s passion for adventure was, Hershel loved his friend more than any treasure in any ruin and would have turned away a foot from the door if it meant they would get to go home in one piece.

 

“Hershel, what are you waiting for?” Randall called to him, carelessly leaping  his way onto a section of the stone walkway that crossed the basin while Hershel was lost in thought.

 

“Be careful!” Hershel called back as he lifted his shovel and made his way towards Randall, albeit at a much slower pace.

 

“If I went as slowly as you are right now, we’d be dead and buried before we even made it to the door!” Randall twirled and walked backwards while he said this, as if to illustrate his point.

 

Hershel shook his and and picked up his pace a bit if only to get Randall to face forward again. He kept his eyes trained carefully on the ground below him as the crossed the basin, glancing up occasionally to make sure Randall was alright every few seconds.

 

He had made it about halfway across the basin when he felt the ground shift under his foot. A loud clicking noise not unlike that of machinery being set into motion reverberated across the chamber, and then the floor began to drop from underneath them. Hershel felt his stomach drop along with the floor. _No. Not now!_ They had almost made it, they were going to be safe. This couldn’t be happening, not after they had made it through so much else together.

 

“Hershel! Run!” Randall screamed at him from his vantage point across the basin. The walls were crumbling now, falling down in great chunks; their writings and all the knowledge contained within them tumbling away to meet with the surging water that would carry them far beyond this world. Hershel felt himself begin to be tugged away to whatever fate the room was currently collapsing towards, but he was caught in a panic state, unable to move.

 

“Hershel!” Randall screamed again, and then he sprinted towards his friend still paralyzed in the center of the room. Hershel felt Randall grab his arm and then suddenly they were running, tearing across the last few steps of the walkway towards safety. Hershel’s feet met with solid ground, but Randall wasn’t so lucky.

 

Randall landed with all his weight on a single leg at the edge of the platform, and it wasn’t enough. For a split second he balanced there, a look of terror on his face, and then he was falling, yanked by unseen hands back towards the dark.

 

“Randall!” Hershel lunged towards his friend, managing to catch his wrist at the last second. Randall’s momentum pulled the both of them downwards and Hershel’s chest connected with the stone, knocking the wind out of him. He wheezed.

 

When he managed to open his eyes again, he was met with nothing but the yawning maw of a chasm that seemed to stretch further than should have been possible. He clutched his friend's wrist with iron he didn't know he was capable of and held out his other arm urgently. “Give me your hand!”

 

Randall curled his fingers around the mask he held in his free hand. “I can't!”

Something flashed in Hershel's eyes. “Drop the mask then!”

 

Randall looked panicked. “I-”

 

“Drop the mask!” Hershel repeated, his voice cracking. “Please!”

 

The edges of the mask bit into Randall’s hand, and he hesitated, still torn. He tightened his grasp on Hershel's arm and tried to scramble up the side of the outcropping with his feet. He could still make it up with the mask. They were going to be okay.

 

He managed to get himself a decent ways up the surface of the rock before his foot caught on something and he slipped back down, pulling Hershel’s arm along with him. Hershel grunted at the pain that shot through his shoulder but he managed to maintain his death grip on Randall’s arm.

 

“Randall, please,” he begged, feeling himself be dragged downwards ever so slightly. “Give me you other hand!” He could still pull Randall back up. They were going to be ok.

 

Randall looked at the mask in his hand and then to his struggling friend.

 

“Please! I can pull you up, just give me your hand!” Hershel voice was beginning to shake, his arm strained to the breaking point but he refused to let go. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Everything was going to be ok. “Please…”

 

Randall looked to Hershel again, and a strangely calm expression settled on his face. Hershel felt fear shoot through him as he recognized it. Randall had come to the conclusion that Hershel still denying with all of his heart. He was going to fall. Even if he did give up the mask, there was no way that Hershel—sweet shy Hershel—had the strength to pull them both back from the precipice. He clenched his fist around the mask that had promised him so much more than the chasm below him and the tears staining Hershel’s face. He had been _so close._

 

“Hershel—”

 

“No, Randall, I can do this, Randall please!”

 

“I’m so sorry, Hershel. I’ve let everyone down again, haven’t I?” Tears prickled at the corners of Randall’s despite his best efforts to keep himself together. He clung to the mask as if it might offer him some miracle, but the golden sun remained silent. It was just a piece of metal, just another of Randall Ascot’s outlandish dreams. “I… I just wanted to… I just wanted them to believe in me. Just once, I wanted to be right.”

 

“Just give me your hand!” Hershel was practically howling at this point, if Randall would just let go of the mask everything would be ok. Everything would be ok.

 

Randall closed his eyes. “Promise you’ll solve the last puzzle for me?” He extended his arm upward, offering the mask that had been the key to everything. “At least that way, this will all have meant something.”  

 

Hershel felt something break in his chest and then he was struggling, using the last of his energy in a desperate scramble to pull his friend back from the edge. “Don’t do this…” he begged. Hershel strained harder, but it didn’t matter. His arm had given out and Randall was falling, plummeting to his death. And then he was gone. The last thing Hershel saw was the face of that of that awful mask glinting against the dark that had swallowed his dear friend.

 

He was alone in the ruin with nothing but the echoes of his scream.

 

-0-

 

The Masked Gentleman waltzed across the lobby with an unnerving grace, stopping just a few feet shy of where the trio stood. He clapped slowly. “Congratulations, Professor, you’ve risked your life and saved your friend.”

 

Hershel turned to face the man that had been the source of constant strife in Monte d’Or for the past several days. Luke clutched Hershel’s hand, his small presence offering Hershel the reassurance he needed to maintain his composure. He stared directly into the face of the mask that had haunted him for eighteen years, but its dead eyes gave him no return. A thousand words swirled in his head but he could find no voice for any of them. He knew who was behind the mask, just as he had known from the start, but it was easier to pretend. It was easier to put off the truth until it was impossible to ignore.

 

“Yes, well as a friend once told me: no risk, no glory.” He managed to maintain his even tone, still clinging to the hope that somehow he had been wrong all along, that the man beneath the mask was a stranger and nothing more.

 

The Masked Gentleman paused, considering the challenge that hung between them in the silence before reaching to his mask and removing it with a flourish. “Well. I suppose I won't be needing this anymore.”

 

Time had not been kind to the man that had called himself the Masked Gentleman. His face was haggard; framed by matted hair, neglected and uncared for. His eyes, once full of intrigue, were tired and angry, staring out from their sunken sockets at the Reunion Inn with disgust. He was a figure driven by whatever dark engine that had seen fit to bring him to Monte d’Or in this spiteful state. Yet he was a figure unmistakable to Hershel as they faced each other, barely feet apart. Randall Ascot was alive, but it seemed like nothing more than a cruel joke.

 

The world fell away from Hershel as he looked at the face of his dearest friend. The words that had been swirling in his head came to an empty halt, answers and deductions alike stopping dead in their jumbled pace. Moments ago, his emotions had been boiling under the surface; anger and fear, relief and disbelief all fighting each other to be the first from his lips but they had all vanished along with Randall’s disguise, leaving him hollow. He had thought eighteen years would have been enough to prepare him to confront this spectre but he was wrong. A single feeling rose within him like a flood, threatening to carry him back to the edge of that cliff where a teenage boy had been broken under the weight of his failures. This was his fault.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said in a tone that was barely audible. It was the only thing he could say. Professor Layton was gone and in his place was the boy who had refused to confront himself for eighteen years, the boy who had refused to heal.


	2. He Who Dreamed

It was summer, and the air was heavy with the sound of insects. Class had been out for a month or so at this point, so there was plenty of time for teenagers like Hershel to be doing absolutely nothing at all, which is precisely what he had decided he would spend this afternoon on. It was a relatively hot afternoon, which made it quite the unfortunate environment for Hershel, as he was almost never comfortable wearing anything less than two or three layers of clothes. He had chosen to sit by the riverbank today in an effort to relieve some of his hot weather troubles, and was now leaning with his back against a tree, making the most of the shade it offered. He had brought a book along for the afternoon, but it had been set off somewhere safely to the side and forgotten about in favor of watching the clouds, or the river, or whatever else happened to catch Hershel’s wandering fancy at the moment. He always had trouble focusing, especially when there wasn’t a failing grade awaiting him if he didn’t.

 

Hershel pulled some of the grass from the hill and idly watched the blades fall between his fingers, enjoying the quiet. He leaned back further and trailed his feet in the river, his socks and  shoes having been long since tucked neatly against the tree. Before long, he found himself slipping off into a state somewhere in between being half-asleep and fully asleep. The insects still chirped in his ears and the river ran as always, but everything else had blurred together into the comforting dark as he closed his eyes and let his mind wander.

 

Moments later, he was awoken by the unwelcome chill of water being thrown at his face. He sat up quickly only to find his face mere inches away from the culprit.

 

“How was your nap?” Randall asked, his eyes flashing mischievously from behind the fake spectacles he insisted were the height of fashion.

 

Hershel backed up to a comfortable distance and tossed grass at Randall in some sort of futile attempt at revenge. “It was better while I was still having it.”

 

He tried to give his friend a pointed glare, but his expression quickly crumpled into a smile as he watched Randall give an exaggerated performance of brushing the grass off of his blazer while looking completely scandalized the whole time. He could never stay angry at Randall. “I thought you were with Angela today?”

 

Randall settled himself under the tree. “Change of plans and all that.”

 

“You mean she told you to bother someone else for a change.”

 

“She did not.”

 

“She did too.”

 

Randall shoved Hershel playfully. “She absolutely did not! After all, how could anyone ever get tired of the most charming fellow around?”

 

“Why don’t you ask Angela that?” Hershel retorted.

 

Randall lunged for Hershel’s head and somehow managed to get the taller boy in a headlock. “Take that back!” He laughed as he ruffled Hershel’s hair repeatedly. The pair pushed each other back and forth in this bout of mock wrestling for a few minutes before Randall eventually gave up his hold and the two of them fell backwards in a tangle, laughing the whole way down.  

 

Hershel had somehow managed to land squarely in the crook of Randall’s elbow with his head resting on the other boy’s chest. If had been anyone else, Hershel would have been scrambling to untangle himself. He had never been much for physical contact, or even being within a few feet of another person, really. It was uncomfortable and tended to make him antsy, but being around Randall was different somehow.

 

Ever since they had met, Randall’s contagious enthusiasm and ridiculous mannerisms had managed to pull Hershel out of his shell bit by bit. It was odd to him that someone as excitable as Randall would have chosen to latch on to him, considering that he barely ever went out of his way to introduce himself to anyone, but there he had been, pestering and teasing Hershel from nearly the first day onward. And there he remained, always filling the silence with any thought that crossed his mind. Hershel would have been lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. There was something about Randall’s boundless energy that made him feel comfortable. He could never say anything that Randall would ridicule him for, never sink too far into his own skeptical mindset before being pulled out again. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the rare feeling of safety that being with his friend brought him.

 

Randall shifted his position a bit but made no move to displace Hershel. He had always been a poor judge of appropriate personal space, especially when Hershel was involved. The pair often got strange looks or angry whispers for some of their closer moments, but Randall had no mind to let them bother him. This was what you did with friends, wasn’t it? He moved a hand to run it through Hershel’s hair and then stopped himself, his hand hovering above Hershel’s head for a moment before he set it down. It was so easy to be close, so natural, but some subconscious corner of his mind was afraid of what that meant.

 

“So what actually happened with your plans today?” Hershel asked after a bit, more out of a desire to listen to his friend talk more than anything.

 

“Oh that.” Randall rubbed the back of his neck. “She was out was all.”

 

Hershel hummed. Ever since Randall had asked Angela out, he had been spending almost all of his free time doting over his girlfriend. Randall was never one to do things by halves, but even then everyone needs a break from each other once in a while. “I see.”

 

“It just means I get to harass my best friend instead of my girlfriend today,” Randall laughed.

 

Hershel hummed again. He wasn’t sure how that statement made him feel. It wasn’t like he was jealous of the couple or anything. He had told himself time and time again that he was glad for the two of them, but something still sunk in him at the comparison of ‘best friend’ to ‘girlfriend.’

 

“I suppose so.”

 

“Aw, don’t be like that, Hersh. You know I didn’t mean it that way.” Randall ran his hand through Hershel’s hair, unable to stop himself this time.

 

Hershel relaxed into the touch. He knew Randall had a poor sense of boundaries and he shouldn’t read to much into it, but he couldn’t help but feeling that this moment was something special. He didn’t want to think about what that meant, or what it would mean for him once they graduated and Randall went off to pursue his future without him, so he didn’t.

 

Neither of them wanted to consider the truth they already knew, so there they stayed under the tree, keeping secrets that anyone could have solved.

 

-0-  

“I’m sorry.” Hershel’s voice only just carried across the room, but it didn’t really matter if Randall could hear him or not. There was no apology in the world that could have made up for eighteen years of stolen time.

 

For a moment, the space between seconds really, Randall seemed surprised. His eyes met Hershel’s and he opened his mouth before closing it again. Of all of the possible things that could have been said, an apology was the least expected. His face clouded and he brought a hand to cover his mouth, as if trying to keep hidden the flash of genuine emotion in his eyes.

 

“You’re sorry?”

 

“Randall, I…” He trailed off and gripped the brim of his hat, finding himself at a rare loss for words.  He had suspected the identity of the Masked Gentlemen from the beginning. He had known that there was a possibility of coming face to face with Randall like this, but there was no amount of metal preparation, no amount of rehearsal that could have ever readied him for it.

 

The sound of footsteps broke through the stalemate in the lobby as Henry and Angela rushed around the corner. Angela let out a gasp as the pair stopped in the entrance, stunned by the scene in front of them.

 

“Randall, is it really you?” Henry asked, his face awash with concern.

 

Randall turned at the unexpected voice, and the small light Hershel had managed to rekindle with his apology was snuffed the moment Randall set his eyes on Henry. He drew himself up to his full height, his angry bravado returning with renewed force. “Why yes, Henry, it is me. Randall Ascot in the flesh and blood,” he replied, his voice edged with disdain. “I would ask  if you missed me, but this answers the question well enough I’d say.” he extended his arms and spun, capturing the full expanse of the lobby in his gesture.

 

Henry was taken aback for a moment. “This…?” Realization flashed in his eyes. “Randall, this isn’t what you think it is!”

 

“Oh really? Because I would say I have a very clear idea of what is going on here, _Henry_ ,” he spat, waving an arm at the couple. “Was it fun? Did you enjoy living out my dreams?” He tilted his head back and let his eyes wander over the elaborate decor of the hotel. “My fairy tales weren’t so foolish after all, were they now?”

 

“Randall please, if you would let me explain—” Henry’s voice was pained.

 

Something in Randall snapped as Henry spoke, and his face twisted furiously. “Explain? Explain? Oh no, Henry. Your city has done quite enough explanation for me as it is.” He leveled a finger at Henry. “How dare you stand there and speak to me! You took everything! Everything!” His hand shook as he trailed his pointing finger across the room from Henry to Angela before finally letting it settle on Hershel. “You laughed at me, but all my hard work was quite convenient for all of you once I was out of the picture, wasn’t it?!”

 

“Randall, enough!” Hershel spoke firmly, his voice finally having found itself again. The urgency of situation had allowed him to once again regain his composure. Professor Layton was needed, and so he had returned, burying the vulnerable side of Hershel as he always did.

 

Randall let out a barking laugh. “Enough? The show is just beginning and you say you’ve had enough? What a shame then, that your ticket doesn’t come with a refund!”

 

Angela clutched her pearl necklace and glanced downwards. “Randall, why are you doing this?”

“Why, I’m simply making good on the all lovely favors you’ve done for me these last years.”

 

“You could at least tell us where you’ve been,” Hershel cut in.

 

“You leave me behind for eighteen years and _now_ you want to know where I’ve been?” Randall’s voice tore through the air like the edges of shattered glass, sharp and unstable.

 

Hershel gripped the brim of his hat as his guilt threatened to overwhelm him again. He pushed it away. Getting this situation under control was his first priority. Randall was teetering on the edge of a breaking point and Hershel was genuinely afraid of what he would do if he was pushed too far. He stepped forward again, centering himself squarely between Randall and everyone else. He had a responsibility to all of them and he was not going to allow his regrets to get in the way of that. He was not a broken teenager.

 

“I believe you owe us at least an explanation,” he continued.

 

“Owe you? I don’t owe you anything. You left me to rot!” He flung his arm sideways. “You want to know where I’ve been? Fine. Allow me to _enlighten_ you." Randall paced a few steps across the carpet before speaking again. “After all, I can't pass judgement on someone so hopelessly ignorant, now can I?” he scoffed before continuing. “While you all were busy living grand off of my fortune, I was stranded in the middle of nowhere, unable to remember my own name!”

 

“You had amnesia?”

 

“That's right, Hershel. For eighteen years, I've lived my life as someone I was not. I suppose that made it awfully easy for you all to step in and fill my place, didn't it, Professor? And here I was thinking you hated archeology.”

 

Hershel clutched the fabric at the bottom of his coat, unable to form a response.

 

“I wasn’t dead, but I might as well have been,” Randall carried on. “Days turned to months to years, and still I remembered nothing.” He shook his head. “I gave up.”

 

“Randall…” Henry began.

 

Randall spun on one foot, turning to face him. “And _you_ . You might have gotten away with all of this.” He laughed bitterly. “Unluckily for you, however, I experienced my own _miracle._ A few months ago, I received a letter. Rather boring statement on its own, I know. But I think you'll find it's contents rather… exciting.”

 

He removed an envelope from his pocket and gestured to it. He had no doubt been carrying it with him in case of this exact occasion, as if all of this were just some sort of grand performance to him. “Allow me to read it for you.”

 

He slipped the letter from the envelope and cleared his throat loudly. It was entirely pointless since everyone was already paying attention to him, but he was determined into make an event of this.

 

“‘To the dear Mr. Ascot,’”he recited, “‘You will not recognize me when you receive this letter, but I most certainly recognize you. I will keep this introduction brief, as I understand what I have written next may come as a shock to you. I know all about your past. I know who took everything from you and how to get it all back.’” He voice rose in both pitch and tempo as he spoke, threatening to break upon every word.

 

“It goes on to recount my life in frighteningly accurate detail. My childhood in Stansbury, my love, my research; and how it was all taken from me by one man.”

 

Henry took a step back. The lobby remained silent in that moment, as if everyone in it hung suspended on a marionette of Randall’s creation. He savored the tension before continuing.

 

“Henry, can you imagine how I felt when I found my own friend, my most trusted confidant, had betrayed me?”

 

“That’s not true!” Henry exclaimed. Angela put a hand on his arm. “Randall, if you would just let me explain—”

 

“And that wasn’t all,” Randall continued, letting his voice echo just enough to drown out Henry’s protests. The time for excuses was past. “I received another letter soon afterwards. It was an invitation to come to this so-called City of Miracles and see for myself just what it was you had done with my dreams. And I must say, you've really brightened the place up, haven't you? Who needs dusty Azran ruins when you can have five casinos? Amazing, really.”

 

Henry looked as if he had several objections, but Randall cut him off almost instantly.

 

“Don't waste my time, Henry, I've seen your city.” He waved a hand. “Now where was I? Oh yes! When I arrived to the hotel that had been arranged for me by my ever so generous mystery patron, I found another letter.” He flipped yet another envelope from his sleeve. “This one was a bit more fun, I should say.”

 

He cleared his throat again and gestured to the paper he was holding. “‘To the dear Mr. Ascot: Are you enjoying your stay in the City of Miracles? I know, it's a dreadful place, really. But worry not, for I have a plan to take revenge on those who have wronged you. You need only to don the garb of the Masked Gentleman and they shall cower before you!” Randall raised his arms, displaying the attire of the man who had indeed brought Monte d’Or to cower before him.

 

“I was skeptical at first of course, as anyone should be, but the letters didn't stop there. Several of them detailed exactly how I should go about my tasks as the Masked Gentleman, while others were… interesting in their own right.”

 

He twirled the envelope in his fingers. “They trusted me and saw to it that my every need was met during my stay here, which is more than can be said of anyone here. So why shouldn't I return the favor?”

 

He dropped the envelope was holding and it fluttered to the floor. The return address was marked simply as ‘a friend.’

 

Randall spun a bit to face his audience head on. “As each phase of our plan fell into place, I felt myself returning with it.” He grinned, as if taunting them. “The Masked Gentleman brought me back.”

 

Angela let out a gasp before covering her mouth with with both hands, her face a mask of disbelief and fear. Her horrified expression was mirrored by Luke and Emmy as they stood behind the professor, trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together. Luke clung to Emmy’s hand.

 

“The letters,” he whispered to her. “Do you think?”

 

Emmy held the young boy close to her, her own suspicions awhirl. “I don’t know, Luke.”

 

Henry was still in shock, scrambling to find the words that could reach Randall, trying to salvage whatever he could of the situation before something unthinkable happened. If only Randall would _listen._

 

Hershel stood, silent. If he spoke now, he would surely break.

 

Randall took in the scene before speaking, once again donning the dramatic mannerisms that he had used to terrorize the city the past few days.  “Well that concludes my tale of woe. However, I believe there are still more tears to be shed!” He spread his arms in a gesture of welcome that had no place in a speech as heartless as this. “Since you all have been such a wonderful audience, I would like to offer you this once-in-a-lifetime chance to witness my final Dark Miracle! Surely you won’t pass up this opportunity?” He glanced to his wrist, checking a watch he didn’t have. “After all, the show’s about to begin!”

 

With that he ran.

 

“Randall, wait!” Hershel called after him, finding his voice much too late for it to matter.

 

Emmy ran past him, a streak of yellow already hot on the tail of the fleeing spectre. “Let’s go, Professor!”

 

Hershel nodded, and he and the rest of the group rushed towards the door and out into the into the awaiting chill of the desert night.

 

-0-

 

Hershel's mind was detached from his motions as he shoved his way through the doors of the Reunion Inn and stepped out into the entryway. The carnival lights cast an otherworldly light across the scene, threatening to rival the sun in all its brightness. The sounds and scents of the city mingled into an overwhelming haze, but Hershel barely registered them at all. His thoughts were far away from him and he moved as if automated, trusting his body to handle the situation that his mind clearly could not.

 

Emmy had cleared the doors ahead of him and was standing a few steps away, staring up at the roof. Hershel followed her line of sight, too numb to be surprised by the view that awaited him there.

 

Randall was perched dangerously close to the edge of the overhanging roof, his arms outstretched and head thrown back as he reveled in the last few moments of quiet Monte d’Or would see that evening. The wind rushed past him, sending his clothes into a mad dance. His hair whipped around his face, framing it against the dark like the halo of some sort of unspeakable angel.

 

“Randall!” Henry shouted as he crossed into the entryway, Angela and Luke on his heels.

 

Upon noticing the group below him, Randall and inhaled deeply, tasting the night before setting his eyes on them with a frightening smile. “I'm so delighted everyone could make it to my little show!” He spun, letting his hand trace across Monte d’Or’s skyline.The flashing lights of the hotel behind him threw his shadow across the city and away into the whispering sands beyond. Soon those sands would not whisper. Soon those sands would roar and this false sun would return to the dust it never should have rose from in the first place. He turned his focus back to the small figures in the plaza below, letting the moment hang _just so_ before speaking again. “Take a good look,” he called, throwing his arms skyward. “After all, this _is_ a one-of-a-kind opportunity!”

 

“Randall, what on earth are you talking about?” Hershel shouted up at the figure posed on the edge of the roof. He was distantly aware of the fear welling up in his stomach.

 

“Tonight's Dark Miracle of course!” Randall clapped his hands together, and as if it were a scheduled performance, the earth shuddered on beat. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the destruction of Monte d’Or!”

 

From the cliffs that surrounded the city like an earthen cage there came a deafening crack, and then suddenly the walls  were caving, crumbling. The sands began their promised roar as they crashed down over the carnival night without so much as a second’s warning. Panic erupted across the streets and almost as quickly as the sands themselves had came, Monte d’Or dissolved into chaos.

 

Hershel watched this all from somewhere far away, unable to do anything besides stare at the figure looming over it all.


	3. He Who Broke

Water dripped from somewhere above, as constant as the beat of a metronome. Hershel ran a hand along the cavern wall as he walked, cringing a bit every time it came in contact with a patch of moss or some other equally harmless but unexpected texture. It was dark, and he and Randall had been walking for hours in this forsaken maze. He just wanted to go home. He had lost count of all the puzzles they had solved, and his anxieties were beginning to blur everything into a kaleidoscope of discomfort. It felt as if the walls were watching him, as if an alien presence was peering at him through the scrawling glyphs on the wall. The only thing that was keeping him going at this point was Randall’s boundless enthusiasm.

 

His friend walked beside him, somehow still full of just as much energy as he had been when they had first descended into the ruin. He kept stopping to pick up bits of moss or peculiar rocks and had been chattering about some Azran thing or another almost nonstop the entire way. Hershel hadn’t been able to process most of what Randall had been saying—he often struggled to keep up with Randall’s speed, especially when he was particularly excited—but he was grateful that the silence was filled with something other than the endless drip of water. Hershel hummed quietly, content to listen to the sound of his friend’s voice, even if he couldn’t quite pick up on the meaning. 

 

“Randall, how much deeper do you think this goes?” Hershel asked after they had walked some distance. The ever present darkness and endless rows of glyphs made it hard to gauge the time and it was beginning to fuel Hershel’s anxiety just that much more. 

 

“I’m sure we’re almost there.”

 

“You’ve been saying that for the past hour.”

 

“Well, we’re closer than we were last time you asked.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“It’s just a bit further.” Randall put a hand to his chest. “I can  _ feel _ it.”

 

Hershel pulled at the bottom of his jacket. “You keep saying that, but what if it’s not?”

 

Randall faltered for a moment before flashing a grin. “I haven’t been wrong yet, have I?”

 

Hershel met his eyes for a second before looking away again. “I… I think we should go back, Randall,” he managed finally. He had promised Randall that he would help him see this through, but the longer they wandered in that lightless place, the more Hershel feared that they would never make it out. He didn’t want to think about that.

 

“What?”

 

“I said I think we should go back,” Hershel pressed. 

 

“Hershel, what are you talking about?” 

 

Hershel pulled harder at the fabric of his jacket, twisting it between his hands. “It’s just…” he trailed off. He was afraid, but he didn’t want to admit it. 

 

Randall adjusted his glasses. He tended to fidget in situations that made him uncomfortable. “We’re two steps away from the discovery of a lifetime and you want to turn around?” He drew himself up a bit in an attempt to seem more confident than he felt. “I thought I made it clear how serious I was about this!”

 

“We almost died, Randall!” Hershel burst out before falling silent again. He was afraid. Afraid that they were one mistake away from dying in this miserable hole and Randall didn’t care at all. His eyes stung as the tension of the past few hours came to the surface. He dragged a sleeve across his face, grateful just this once for the ruin’s darkness. 

 

Randall looked shocked, his bold attitude melting away almost instantly. His friend almost never cried. “Hey, I…”

 

Hershel sniffled and secured his grip on his shovel. “It’s fine. Let’s just go find your treasure.” 

 

“Hersh…”

 

“Let’s go. This is serious after all.”

 

Randall didn’t move, frustrated with himself for being too clumsy with his feelings to come up with the right thing to say to his friend. Hershel had already pulled back into his shell, and even someone as kind and clever as Angela would have struggled to help him back out at this point. And Randall wasn’t even half as good at this sort of thing as she was. He found himself half-wishing that Angela was with them right then. She would have known what to do. She always did. 

 

“Let’s take a break, alright?” He said finally. 

 

“It’s fine,” Hershel insisted. He was looking at the floor now, clearly uncomfortable that he had brought attention to himself. 

Randall frowned. The only time Hershel was ever stubborn about anything was when it came to pretending nothing was wrong. Randall took a seat on the ruin floor, his legs stretched in front of him taking up as much space as possible. He inhaled and then gave a loud but very fake yawn. “Well, you can stand there if you want.”

 

Hershel sighed and leaned back against the wall next to Randall. He slid down it slowly, eventually coming to rest with his knees tucked against his chest. Randall put a hand on his shoulder. Hershel struggled to resist the urge to lean into it even then. It was unfair that he could be so comfortable even when he was angry. He could never stay mad at Randall and he knew it. He pressed his face between his knees. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t even wanted to come down here in the first place, but Randall had asked him with that smile of his and Hershel had found himself agreeing before he knew what had happened. It wasn’t fair. 

 

“This isn’t worth it, Randall,” he said quietly. He didn’t raise his head. 

 

Randall let out a long breath, cursing himself internally. He had pushed Hershel too far this time. They were in over their heads and he knew it, but they couldn’t turn away now. He wouldn’t go home a failure. He couldn’t. “It’s worth it to me,” he found himself saying. It sounded selfish even as it echoed in his own ears, but he didn’t know what else to say. 

 

“And what if we die down here? Is treasure worth that?” Hershel gave him an accusatory glance before setting his head back down on his knees. 

 

“It's…” Randall trailed off as he watched the shuddering rise and fall of his friend’s shoulders. He removed his glasses and toyed with their hinges in an almost reflexive response to the tension he was feeling. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. 

 

“It's...”

 

“I know. It's not about the treasure, is it?”

 

“No.” Randall didn't even bother to ask how he had known. Hershel always did with him, somehow. 

 

Hershel let out a breath in the shelter of his arms. He didn't know how to feel.

 

“I… just want them to see me as more than a joke, Hershel!”

 

“...I know.”

 

Randall waved an arm. “There has to be something at the end of this or we’ll just go back home and the whole of Stansbury can laugh at Randall Ascot, the boy disaster!”

 

“Randall…”

 

“And, and…” Randall brought his arm down only to clutch it close to his body. “Maybe he won't-”

 

“Randall.” Hershel looked up from his knees. “Randall, you don't have to do this. Please. I-” he caught himself. “There's no need to prove yourself. There are people that care about you very much.”

 

“That's why I  _ have  _ to do this, Randall insisted. “When… when this is all over, I intend to propose to Angela. That’s why this has to mean something. Hersh, please.” 

 

Hershel felt as if the floor had been pulled from under him. Propose. He found himself nodding but it was an automated response. His mind was already spinning away in an aimless pattern, as if mirroring the twisted writing on the walls. Thoughts flashed by in a scattered parade. Gentle touches and moments where they had stood close, almost too close for friends. Lying under trees in the summer sun, laughing about this and that. The nights where he had snuck into Randall’s house just to hear him talk. Things that he had thought meant  _ something.  _ Things that were past and over, soon to be forgotten with the opening of this new chapter. 

There were a hundred words he could have said in that moment, staring into the face of his dearest friend, but the only thing he said was:

 

“Alright, Randall, let’s go find treasure.” 

 

-0-

 

Randall perched like a smug raven on the roof of Monte d'Or’s central gallery, an omen that had long foretold of the all devouring sands that flooded the city below. From his vantage point he could see the tiny shapes of Monte d’Or’s citizens as they struggled to keep themselves out of the chaos, climbing lampposts and hanging off balconies like so many ants about to be swept away by the incoming tide. He had lost sight of Hershel and his group when they had rushed into the streets some time ago, but he didn't care. They could run where they pleased, the desert’s embrace would find them anyway. 

 

The sand rose slowly, too slowly for Randall as he waited on the edge. He wanted to watch Monte d’Or sink, to be buried under the earth that it had risen from like a beacon to remind him of everything that could have been his. He wanted it to fall, to be gone, to be shattered beneath the weight of his rage. He clenched his hands tightly, knuckles flushed as white as the moon that stood witness to his judgment. Soon. Soon. The sand would cover it all, scraping away this deceit as rough edges always did, given enough time or aggression. Monte d’Or would bleed gold and then the earth would sleep once again.

 

He closed his eyes and exhaled, awaiting the same inescapable verdict that he had delivered only moments ago to the city below him. 

 

But the City of Miracles refused to die. 

 

Randall opened his eyes as the earth shook below him, even more so than it already had. A feeling not unlike that of rising on a wave built beneath his feet. The walls that had surrounded Monte d'Or and sealed the fate of those within began to fall away as sections of the city rose up from the central plaza in a ring of interconnected platforms that resembled the writing in the ruins he knew slumbered just beneath the streets.

 

No. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not again. He dug his nails deep into his palms, frantic disbelief erupting through him in every direction. The city continued to rise, the claws of the desert unable to find purchase as the platforms soared above it. Randall screamed the awful howl of a cornered animal as he watched his prize escaping him. Would he be denied everything!? He tasted blood at the back of his throat but nothing mattered. He had failed.

 

The gallery shuddered once, a deep cracking vibration unbefitting of a building without any real history, and Randall found himself losing his balance. He did not fight with gravity this time, allowing it to tempt him with promises that the sands had failed to make good on. He fell from the roof, numb. His body hit the sand that had built up around the plaza and the impact drove the wind out of him, but failed him just as the sands had. He was left there, battered and unwilling to get up as Monte d'Or rose around him, touching the sky that was stolen from him so long ago.


	4. He Who Loved

Crickets sung in the grass that towered above them, calling to each other in the only world they would ever know. Randall's feet crunched in the gravel alongside the grass as he walked towards a familiar house. He too was lost in his own world.  

He quieted his footsteps as he rounded the side of the house and hopped over the short fence. It was covered in ivy and a few of the planks slanted down towards the earth. It looked it had been a while since its owners had felt spry enough to take care of it. He avoided passing in front of the windows as he made his way to the tree that stood in the side yard, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. They were shuttered and darkened, the occupants having long since turned in for the evening. 

 

He put his hands on the lowest bough and pulled himself upward in with an ease that came from practice. His feet scrabbled against the bark before finding purchase and pushing him upwards towards the higher reaches of the tree. 

 

He had fallen the first time he had done this. His messenger bag had snagged itself on a branch below him, and he had been swung around like a pendulum towards the ground and the dusting of bruises that came with it. Within moments of his crash landing, Lucille Layton had come rushing out from the home, full of surprise and then concern. There had been no accusing questions, no demands to know why Randall was in a tree on her property at some godforsaken hour. She had brought him inside, sat him down on the couch and put a pot of water on before calling Hershel down from his room. Without question she had opened her home to Randall, a feeling he doubted he would forget the rest of life. 

There was no anger in the Layton home. There was worry, and perhaps a bit too much of it on occasion, but there were never any harsh words. There were never any raised fists over papers marked with the red ink of failure. Never any dismissal of the boy who despite all his cleverness and passion, struggled to succeed in the the classes he couldn't focus on. There was only warmth, and tonight Randall needed that more than anything. 

 

He made his way carefully along a slender branch, his heart beating in twos as his toes hung off the edge. Ahead of him, a small light flickered in Hershel's window. His friend was slumped over his desk, his head resting in the crook of his elbows. The lamp on his desk cast a faint halo over Hershel’s head and illuminated the homework he had left unattended, trapped beneath his arms. 

 

Hershel always looked so calm when he was sleeping, the anxiety that so often shaped the edges of his face into a frown was gone, leaving him with a faint smile as he dozed on, unaware of his visitor. Randall gave a secret smile of his own, feeling a bit better even now. 

 

Randall tapped at the window, softly at first and then was nearly banging on it until Hershel jolted awake. Randall had never been one for patience. Hershel sat up, his eyes flashing wildly as he looked for the source of the noise. The papers on his desk were sent flying as he did so, fluttering to the ground like the leaves that rustled in Randall's ears.

 

Hershel moved to unlock the window, mouthing things that Randall couldn't hear but were no doubt the complaints of a tired teenager.

 

“Randall, it's two in the morning,” he grumbled softly, but he was already helping his somewhat disheveled friend through the window.  

 

Randall rubbed the back of his head apologetically and set his bag on the desk in an unspoken statement of his intentions. Hershel eyed it, noting the change of clothes that poked out of the top, barely fitting along with all of the bent bottle caps and oddly shaped rocks that Randall always insisted on carrying around with him. 

 

He looked at Randall, his expression asking questions he no longer needed to voice. 

 

“What? Too late for an evening stroll?” 

 

Hershel raised an eyebrow at him. 

 

“You should try staying up later than sunset sometime, Hersh. Live a little,” Randall teased. 

 

“Hmm, I'll pass.”

 

“Coward.” Randall was grinning as he skidded towards the bed. He grabbed a pillow and sent it flying in Hershel’s direction. “Have at thee!” 

 

The pillow caught Hershel squarely in the chest with a surprising amount of force for something so soft. He stumbled back a half step and huffed a bit. He shook his head disapprovingly at Randall but he was already wearing a smile of his own. “Randall, please,” he half-laughed half-whispered. “My parents are sleeping.”

 

Randall gave an exaggerated sigh. “Alright, I'll spare you this time.” He held up a finger. “But only because your mother is ever so kind.” 

 

“Your generosity is immeasurable,” Hershel said with as much sarcasm as he could manage this late at night. 

 

“Oh shut up,” Randall laughed and lobbed the other pillow at him.

 

It missed Hershel by a mile and soared into the wall behind him with a soft thump. Hershel walked after it, picked it up and moved to set his bed back to rights. He paused for a moment, glanced at Randall's bag and then readjusted the pillows so that there would be room for enough for his friend as well.

 

This was a common occurrence between the two of them at this point. Hershel knew the script well enough that he never asked why. He had the first night, when the two of them had slept on blankets on opposite ends of the room. He had been met with rushed laughter and and answers that danced but never got to the point. He had asked again on what might have been the tenth time, after he had dug old sleeping bags out of the gear in his father’s workshop; relics of a time when the world was younger and the fence outside their home was painted brightly. He still didn't get his answer. 

 

It wasn't until sometime much later, when the summer had settled on them in all its heat and heavy steam that Hershel finally understood why Randall would never explain his nighttime visits. Randall had pulled off his jacket that evening, revealing arms streaked with bruises, some fading and some as furious and purple as the coat itself. Hershel never so much as raised an eyebrow, never asked. He didn't have to. He never asked and Randall never told, but they had slept in his bed that night, holding each other close to keep the world at bay. 

 

The next week someone had put a rock through the windshield of Sir Ascot’s car, and if anyone asked Hershel about it he would have stammered some excuse about being out of town that day. 

Hershel yawned, drawn back to the present by a clatter as Randall took off his shoes and tossed them haphazardly in the direction of his bag. They landed on one of the sheets of Hershel’s homework, crumpling it almost instantly. Randall winced.

 

“Whoops.”

 

Hershel sighed. “It's alright, just hurry up and change will you? I'm tired.” Hershel turned away to face the wall.

 

Randall rustled around for a bit as he changed into the pyjamas he had brought with him. Hershel started counting the cracks on the walls. From behind him came the distinct noise of a sheet of paper being lifted up and turned over.

 

“What's this for?”

 

Hershel turned around to find his friend half-dressed, his shirt pulled over his head only to the shoulders. Randall had gotten distracted by the scattered papers at some point during his relatively simple task, unable to stop himself from jumping immediately to whatever caught his eye in the moment. 

 

“It was from the geometry final.” 

 

“Oh.” Randall pulled his shirt the rest of the way on. “How'd that go?”

 

“Alright, I suppose.” Hershel had never been a star student, and was used to getting his work marked with entirely unimpressive letters like Bs or Cs, but it didn't bother him too much. Studying didn't come easy to him and he was grateful that he could at least pass his classes. It was enough get him to where he wanted to go, which he supposed was some vague idea of college, but he had never been one for planning that far ahead.

  
  


Randall nodded sagely and let the paper drift to the floor, the curve of the bright red C lit up by the desk light before fading into obscurity. “Numbers are impossible.”

 

“Aren't you in calculus?”

 

Randall looked as if he was about to launch into some speech about how the amazing Randall Ascot could handle even the most challenging of sums but his eyes wandered to papers on the floor, taunted by letters entirely different than those he had received. Letters entirely different from those expected of the boy who was to inherit the Ascot name. Letters entirely different than those his long hours filled with manic and failing attempts to study had won him. He let his hands fall slack to his sides and stood there wearing a neutral expression. “Yeah.” 

 

Hershel noticed this change in attitude; slight enough that only he or Angela would have been able to catch it. He knitted his eyebrows together in concern. “Randall, did you fail your class?”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

Hershel exhaled deeply. There was an almost physical weight Randall’s admission.

 

Randall bit his lip but remained silent. 

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hershel sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to it, in much the same way his father would offer a seat on the couch and a few words in his warm rumble of a voice whenever Hershel was feeling overwhelmed.

Randall let himself drop onto the bed next to Hershel, bouncing a few times from his momentum. He picked at edges of his fingernails, unwilling to make eye contact. They were red and torn, victims of the last few anxious hours Randall had been through. 

 

“It's alright if you don't want to talk.”

 

“No, I…” Randall's hands twitched.

 

Hershel looked at him, and his face—haloed by the warm light of the desk lamp—was full of the most honest concern Randall had seen all night. Suddenly Randall was unable to hold back the tide.

 

“I took three advanced placement classes because I thought maybe I could impress him but they were all so boring, Hershel, and I couldn't focus and I couldn't think and the teacher was up at the front rambling about quadratics this or quadratics that or the exact conjugation of a verb in a Latin,” his voice picked up pace and soon his speech had garbled together into a frantic mass of words that had no start or end. “God, I'm such an idiot. I didn't even study, I couldn't. Every time I opened the pages there’d be something at the back of my mind and suddenly it's four am and I'm reading a history book for fun with four pages of calculations due in three hours and guess who couldn't be bothered to touch them.” His breathing was erratic. “My grades came back today and I forgot to get them from the mail because I was too busy collecting rocks and reading fairy tales to notice.”

 

Hershel winced slightly, regretting his choice of words about Randall's interests. 

 

“He was screaming, Hersh, and I couldn't even hear the words anymore it was just sounds and he took my books, he tore my map.” Randall started sniffling, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. “He threw my shovel at me and that's when I ran, but he was right, Hershel. The only thing I'm good for is digging holes in my backyard and pretending like anything I do means something.”

 

Hershel sat in silence, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he pushed down the quiet rage building within him like a furnace warming up. He couldn't be angry, he needed to be there for Randall first. 

 

“Randall, I think you're brilliant.”

 

“Sure,” Randall managed between his hiccuping sobs.

 

“I do,” Hershel insisted firmly. “There's no one half as clever or talented when it comes down to it.”

 

Randall’s voice refused to work, his words obstructed by the tears that held his throat in a choke hold. 

 

Hershel wrapped his arms around his friend; awkwardly at first but he strengthened his hold as Randall nearly collapsed into him. He leaned back until the pair were resting on the bed. “I really mean it, Randall, you’re incredible. I don't know anyone as good at puzzles as you are, and I've still never beaten you at fencing. You could probably teach the course on archeology at this point if you really wanted to,” he began. “Just because you're not interested in math doesn't mean you're not worth anything, please don't say such unkind things about yourself.” Hershel continued on murmuring compliments into his friend’s hair, repeating a few here and there in his attempt to reassure him. 

 

This seemed to get through to Randall and after a minute or so his breathing slowed, but he still sobbed softly into Hershel’s shoulder. 

 

“You're amazing Randall,” Hershel continued on, speaking without thinking. “You're amazing and I- I really admire you,” he stuttered for a second, realizing how close they were. He pushed that thought away. This, and every other night like it was because Randall needed the comfort, and nothing more. 

 

Randall sniffled once and nodded. “Thank you.”

 

Hershel hummed in response, but it didn't stop at the single note of agreement. Before he was aware of what he was doing, he was humming along to the tune of a lullaby he had heard so often on the nights he had crept into his parents’ bedroom with a blanket in hand, afraid of the monsters that lurked in his closet. The words were lost in the haze of his memories so he just hummed the melody over and over, letting his chest rise and fall in tandem with Randall's.

 

When the moon had slipped below the windowsill and the only sounds left in the room were the creaks and pops of the home’s wooden skeleton as it strained in its old age, Hershel finally sang the only verse of the lullaby he could remember into the deaf ears of his sleeping friend. 

 

“And though the night may howl and bite, I'm here now my dear, I love you, sleep tight.” 


	5. He Who Fell (Reprise)

It was not until Monte d'Or had nearly finished its stuttering ascent to stand in the first few rays of dawn that Randall Ascot finally hauled his body from the ground. He leaned heavily on his cane, a vain prop that hadn't seen any practical use until now. It was a miracle in its own right that it had fallen so near to him, but Randall Ascot was no stranger to miracles.

 

He stared out at the world with baleful eyes, his breath coming in ragged beats. Monte d'Or sprawled before him, just as gaudy and golden as always. In fact, as the morning light played about the surfaces of buildings and tip-toed over the torn carnival banners and shattered lights, Henry's city seemed to be lit with a purer gold. Truer. It was as if Monte d'Or had taken everything he had thrown at it and spit it back in his face to rise up better than it had ever been.

 

Randall drove his weight into the cane like an arrow, as if somehow he could open the earth again with his bare hands. Everything he had done for the sake of the justice that this bejeweled nightmare of a city so desperately deserved had been for nothing. Eighteen years spent in a village while his friends had forgotten him and moved on to better days; days built on his back, for nothing. A year of meticulous planning and acting, for nothing. A trip to the ruins that had torn away the boy he had been and the future he had seen, for nothing. Hours of study and anxiety, bruises and the safety of his friends’ homes, for nothing. Holes and backyards and bottle caps and maps. _For nothing_. Everything he ever was or had been. Ending in failure always.

 

Even now the light cast shadows, and the shadows were laughing, their arms upraised in a sick mockery of his own mannerisms. All of it. For _nothing._ For worse than nothing. He might as well have done Henry a favor. He could have screamed then, but he couldn't tell. He could have let out a great wailing cry that trailed and hitched as it broke at its peak, but he didn't know. It might have just been the croaking whisper of a man who wanted to scream but could not. The sands didn’t play favorites regardless of truth, and swallowed them both, concept and reality lost in the empty morning.

 

-0-

 

Hershel stepped off the central platform, Emmy and Luke close behind him. Emmy had a hand on Luke's shoulder as the platform shook to a halt, lending her near perfect balance to the flailing boy. Angela hung some distance back from the trio, her hands pressed together in worry.

 

“This ends here, Randall.” Hershel called in the direction of the man slumped over his cane.

 

Randall raised his head to stare blankly into the face of his friend. No, the face of the professor. “How?”

 

Hershel raised a hand towards the city that now towered above them on pillars of ancient design. He, along with Emmy, Luke and Angela had uncovered them as Randall had sat preening above the supposed destruction of Monte d'Or. It was a riddle he began to suspect the answer to the more he learned about the Mask of Chaos and city that it had called home. Everything had clicked together when he had recovered the mask from the Reunion Inn. _When they are united, the bringers of chaos and order will come._ The truth to the twin mask had been staring them in the face since the beginning, and now that Hershel had finally seen it, the ruins would sleep no longer.

 

“This is the true secret of the Azran.” His frown sharpened. “I discovered it while you were busy seeking revenge.”

 

The cane shook in Randall’s hands as his shoulders trembled with emotion. Fury. Disbelief. The Hershel Layton he had left eighteen years ago had been a quiet boy who practically had to be drug by his ears if he was going to participate in anything remotely archeological. And yet here he stood, a learned professor able to surpass Randall himself in his understanding of the secret he had staked everything on.

 

“ _You_ discovered it? That's odd. I distinctly remember you referring to this all as a fairytale.” He drew himself up a bit in an attempt to look down on the man across the plaza. “What prompted the sudden change of heart, _Professor_?”

 

Hershel touched the brim of his top hat.

 

“Did the discovery of the ruins of Akbadain look good on your university application? After all, you were the only one left to claim them,” he half-laughed half-spat at Hershel.

 

Emmy tensed, looking as if she was about to jump Randall for speaking about her professor in that manner, but she didn't move from her protective hold on Luke, knowing that someone needed to be the rock while Hershel couldn't.

 

Hershel said nothing, memories of evenings spent in the awful silence of a gravestone beneath a tree tugging at his corners. Nothing in this world left of Randall’s dreams but a boulder in the roots of their tree and a coin with words he didn't care about. And then he had moved from Stansbury, driven away by the anger of the two wealthiest families in town looking for someone to place the weight of the death of both a lover and a son on. He had moved to London and then there wasn't even a coin to run between his fingers, no grave to leave flowers on. He lay in his bed shivering at night, afraid that the bustle of the city would swallow the memories of his friend. When the fall finally came, he applied to Gressenheller University as a student of archeology. It was nothing in the face of eighteen stolen years, but he had owed it to Randall to at least make something of those dreams of great discoveries and ancient secrets.

 

“I only meant to honor your memory.”

 

“But I'm not a memory now, am I?”

 

“I had no way of knowing you would ever return! I was devastated, Randall, all of us were!”

 

Randall barked out a laugh. “Devastated? Your success speaks otherwise, Professor.”

 

“Randall!” a familiar shout rang out across the plaza as Henry, Dalston, Mordy and a few of the inspectors from the police force scrambled towards the standoff.

 

Randall met the sound of Henry's voice with the explosion of everything he had been holding within himself. “You're just as guilty as he is!” he screamed, and flung himself at Hershel, his cane raised to strike. The end slid off as he lifted it, revealing the blade that had remained a hidden safeguard throughout his entire career as the Masked Gentleman.

 

Hershel threw himself out from under the blade, catching sight of Emmy as she neatly rolled herself and Luke to the side and took off running; towing the small boy to safety. Randall struck again, sending sparks flying from the cobbles as the sword clattered off of them. Hershel danced backwards, but his foot caught on a fallen chunk of rubble and he tripped over himself. His back collided with a pile of brick and wooden shrapnel that had once passed for the side of a building and he gritted his teeth as the impact passed through him.

 

Randall wasted no time taking advantage of the opportunity and was upon him almost instantly, his sword seeming to swing in slow motion as it began its deadly arc. Somewhere behind him Hershel could hear Luke shouting. Something clattered to a stop near his head. He reached out instinctively and his hand met metal, smooth and cold to the touch. He flung his arm upward with barely a second to spare and Randall's sword smashed into the broken pipe he was now holding.

 

Hershel leapt to his feet, offering a nod to Luke, who was now standing some distance away with Emmy and punching the air in a ‘go get him’ sort of gesture. Hershel took a breath. They were counting on the professor and he wasn't about to let them down. He leveled his pipe at Randall who was looking a bit stunned by the fact that he was now armed. This had gone on for far too long.

 

“This ends here,” he declared, his voice commanding the entirety of the plaza.

 

Randall responded by swinging again. Hershel caught it almost effortlessly and it glanced off the rounded edge of his own ‘weapon’. Randall had always been the better of the two in their youth, but Hershel had eighteen years of practice on him at this point, and unlike his opponent, wasn't acting out of sheer destructive desire.

 

Strike, counter. Again and again the sound of clanging metal rang out in the morning air, occasionally coupled with sparks or the screech of a sword on stone as Randall missed his target in their frantic dance. The sword whistled past Hershel’s ear and for a moment the scent of gym equipment and the laughter of a teenager lingered over him.

 

Randall flung his sword at Hershel, his movements looking erratic to anyone besides the dueling pair, but there was a method behind his madness; a method built on a passion for the art that Hershel could just barely keep up with even after all these years.

 

“You left me to rot!” Randall howled. Their weapons crashed together and they sprung aside again.

 

Hershel’s expression shifted ever so slightly as a guilty weight tugged at the corner of his mouth. A weight that hung on him and would not let go, a constant question asking him where he would be now if only he had been stronger, if only his weakness hadn’t taken everything from the man in front of him. His body tensed as he struggled to push away an admission that came back to haunt him on nights when study-work didn’t fill every free corner of his mind. He killed Randall.

 

And yet, Randall was very much alive, alive enough to move with all of the frenzy and poise that had been so familiar to Hershel in the time they had spent on the mats in the gym at St Burns. He was alive and as they moved, step by step, parry by parry, Hershel began to see traces of the Randall he used to know in more than just his swordplay. Uncertainty, insecurity, the flashing of eyes that sought approval in the corners of a world that was ever unwilling to provide it. It was the desperation of a man in denial of his own loss, and it was a feeling that Hershel knew all too well.

 

“Randall, listen to me!” He spoke firmly, trying to reach the Randall he could see in the eyes of this spectre. Trying to convince him that world hadn’t abandoned him as he had feared, that he hadn’t been forgotten or replaced.

 

A hollow clang echoed, and then the steps of two fighters as they re-centered themselves.

 

“Did you even care?! Did you think about me once?! Did you ask yourselves if this is what I would have wanted?!”

 

Another sharp peal as their weapons crossed again.  

 

_I just wanted them to believe in me. Just once, I wanted to be right._

 

Hershel ducked under a horizontal swing that threatened to cleave his beloved hat in two. “We never stopped caring, Randall!”

 

Something flickered in Randall’s eyes as he by passed Hershel with his next thrust. Fear. “Don’t lie to me!” He yelled back, but there was a wavering in his voice that betrayed the doubt he felt. If they really still cared, what did that mean for all of this, for the unspeakable things his hands had brought about?  He let out a wordless shout and lunged.

 

Hershel picked up on the hesitation and pressed harder.. “Everything written in those letters was a lie! You were being used.” Randall’s greatest fear in the world was being forgotten, and here he was, on the doorstep of Azran ruin, convinced that people closest to him had somehow done just that. It fit together too well to be a mere coincidence.

 

“You’re wrong!” Randall’s sword met the pipe in a violent arc inches from Hershel’s face. Randall’s hands were shaking. “I did this! This was my justice, my retribution!”

 

“There was no justice in any of this. You were taken advantage of!”

 

Randall did not raise his sword again, and remained there, his full weight driving into Hershel’s arm. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

 

Hershel was undeterred. Randall needed to see the truth. “The Masked Gentleman was a puppet, Randall,” he insisted, gritting his teeth as he struggled to keep the sword at bay. “Someone else has been playing us for fools all along!”

 

Randall shuddered once and then slammed against Hershel with everything he had. Hershel felt it coming and shifted his stance accordingly, allowing the force to slide along the rounded edge of the pipe, carrying Randall’s sword with it. The momentum was too much for the exhausted man and his sword flew from his hands, spinning in the light before landing like a guided arrow directly in front of Angela.

 

“And that person is you!”

 

-0-

 

Sand skittered across the plaza as a lone gust of wind carried it off to places unknown and unimportant to those who had gathered in the center of the city.

 

Angela took a step back, her eyes darting over the sword as if it were a creature that could rear up and strike her at any moment.

 

“Me?” She put a hand to her chest. “Hershel, what are you talking about?”

 

Henry stepped forward, looking as if he were about to deliver a particularly cutting response, but let his expression fall when Hershel raised a finger in the universal gesture of ‘one moment please.’

 

Hershel trained his gaze on Angela. “I wish I could say that this has been a pleasure, but it would not do for me to lie, now would it, Descole?”

 

Angela raised her chin, meeting his challenge. She sniffed condescendingly, but the voice that left her mouth was not hers. “Oh, oh, well done, Layton. I suppose this means I should give you an award?” the new voice sneered.

 

“That won't be necessary.”

 

“ _Tch.”_ Descole returned Hershel’s stare for a moment before spinning on their heel in a whirl of jewelry and red fabric. As they did so, the guise that they had worn with such careful attention to detail fell away to reveal a figure that was completely different, yet somehow still dressed just as elegantly as a wealthy woman.

 

“Descole!” Luke shouted from the other side of the plaza. It wasn't new information to anyone, considering that Hershel had just revealed the true identity of the impostor, but yelling it felt important somehow.

 

Emmy rested her hand on Luke’s shoulder, her body full of a coiled sort of tension.

 

“What…what is the meaning of this?” Randall asked, pulling everyone's attention back to him. He was breathing hard.

 

Hershel looked to him, and the corners of his frown softened a bit. “This is the author of your letters, Randall, and the true mastermind behind all of this.”

 

“Once again, I applaud you, Layton.” Descole’s voice dripped with amusement. If the Masked Gentleman was a puppet, then here was the true master of theatrics.

 

Randall buried his fingers in his hair hard enough that he felt it would tear out, desperate for something to occupy his hands with. “Then where is Angela!?”

 

Hershel paused, unsure whether or not it was safe to answer.

 

Angela didn't give him the opportunity.

 

A lone officer stepped forward from the group that Henry had brought with him and removed her hat, revealing blonde hair tied back in a tight bun. “I'm right here!”

 

“Right,” Hershel nodded. “I found Angela in a room at the Reunion Inn, and we needed some way to ensure her safety while we played at Descole’s little game. The uniform was her idea.”

 

Descole’s upper lip curled. “Very clever you two. But tell me, Layton, and I must know, how did you figure me out?” They waved a hand in Henry's direction “Her own husband couldn't even manage as much.”

 

Hershel bit back several comments that came to mind immediately. “When we first arrived here, I spoke to Angela. There was a certain… air of unease to our conversation at the time. The next time we visited, she was nothing but cordial. Her unease had completely disappeared.” He put a hand to his chin. “I wonder what caused that, hmm?”

 

“ _Tch_.”

 

“You see, Descole, Angela had suspected Randall of being the Masked Gentleman from the start. That was the reason for her letter.” He tilted his head slightly. “And yet, despite her trust in me to handle the situation, she was unsure what I would do were I to discover that Randall was indeed playing the part of the Masked Gentleman. Would I be able to reason with him, or would I be in favor of his arrest? She had no way of knowing the answer to this question, thus her uncertainty upon my arrival.”

 

Hershel paced a few steps. “Considering that I had done nothing to dispel her concerns, there would have been no reason for her to have been as calm as she was when we visited a second time.” He stopped pacing and turned back to Descole. “Your downfall was underestimating her deductive skills.”

 

Descole’s face twisted into an expression that could only be described as unpleasant. “I see,” they drew out.

 

“You proved my hunch completely when you asked about the Mask of Order.”

 

“Perhaps...I was impatient.”

 

Hershel looked pointedly in Randall’s direction before continuing. “You used the Masked Gentleman to convince Henry of the power of the Mask of Chaos, did you not?”

 

“Yes, yes, what else?” Descole waved a hand and then turned so they could stare down the bridge of their nose at Randall. The ebony white of their mask hid any and all expression from view, but their sheer contempt was visible even in the way they carried themself. “And I must say, the _dear_ Mr. Ascot here played his part marvelously. Who would have thought polite correspondence was the most efficient way to send a man out on the warpath? I pity you, really.” They laughed, but it was a joyless affair.

 

“I’m surprised Ledore didn’t offer up the mask at his first opportunity. The way Ascot jumped to my every word, I thought I would see the fall of Monte d’Or within the first week. Remind me to call on him again if I ever happen to be in the market for lonely fools.” They let their last word linger, taking the time to fill it with a sharp poison as it hung.

 

Hershel put a hand to the brim of his hat, closing the door to a furnace where embers began to do something that could no longer be described as smoldering. “Henry did not procure the mask because he could not. But you had failed to do your research on the subject,” he said with as much edge as he could muster, “so you decided to become Angela in an attempt to get closer to him.” He leveled a finger at Descole. “That was your fatal error.”

 

Descole turned the deduction over for a moment before bowing in a fashion that was anything but respectful. “Correct as always, I see. However! It matters not. You can solve as many puzzles as you like, but it will not change the fact that I have already won!”

 

Hershel pursed his lips.

 

“In fact, I must thank you! You've even gone to the trouble of doing all my work for me. But you knew that already, did you not?” Descole put a hand to their chest in a mockery of concern. “Yet you couldn't let your dear friend destroy Monte d’Or, now could you? What a predicament that must have been.”

 

Hershel frowned, but did not justify Descole with a response.

 

“Well, it's been fun Layton, but I really am running late for some rather important business.” Descole turned on their heel. “Oh and Ascot? Do try to be less of a disappointment next time!” they called back over their shoulder before sprinting towards the edge of the plaza. They jumped twice to build up momentum and then made one last leap over rubble that had collected at the edge of the plaza before disappearing from sight.

 

Several of the police scrambled to follow Descole, but none of them were nearly as quick as Emmy, who had managed to halfway scale the rubble before anyone else had really managed to gather their wits. She clambered up to the top and scanned the area before turning around again.

 

“They're gone, Professor!” she shouted. She didn't look surprised.

 

Hershel nodded, but didn't reply. He was struck with the same sort of dumbfounded silence that hung on everyone else gathered in the plaza.

 

-0-

 

Randall had watched the conflict between Hershel and Descole unfold as if it were a theater production. Two actors crossed words on a stage set with flair and great significance, yet it was somehow completely detached from his own reality. Hershel’s words rung in his ears on repeat, but he could not come to terms with them.

 

_This is the author of your letters, Randall._

 

The catalyst for his recovery and his anger, the engine that had driven him here on betrayed wings had spared him little more than an afterthought.

 

_Oh and Ascot? Do try to be less of a disappointment next time._

 

Months of dedicated work and he had been afforded less attention than one might give a passing stranger. Did the letters mean nothing? He had thought… He had thought that he had at least mattered to someone, the way they had spoken so highly of him, they way they had offered him a chance at justice. But it had been a farce, a mockery, the voice of a cruel child who complimented him only to turn around and laugh with their friends about it the next moment.

 

He pulled at his hair. He could hear voices around him but they were as meaningless as the sand that drifted by him: rasping and unable to deliver the message he had asked them to. Masks danced in his vision. One shone with the false gold of this awful city, and the other was bone white, singing of old graves and shadows beneath the opera house. It was a mask that came from much the same place as his own, driven to take on horrible shapes by the ambition of the face it rested upon. He scrubbed at his eyes as if he could somehow wipe away his own thoughts but they clung to him, sharp and tenacious. Sand and sand again.

 

The masks might as well have been one and the same, as their color made no difference at this point. The world had made no effort to tell them apart, and why should they? Horrible shapes with horrible hands that used and threw away were not fit to be judged differently because one suit was white silk and the other was trimmed with fur.

 

_This is the author of your letters, Randall._

 

A horrible shape that had thrown him away just as everything else had done time and time again. He felt he could scream but he was paralyzed, his hands tearing at his hair of their own accord now. All of this for what? For _nothing_.

 

They could take him away now. There was nothing of worth left here anyway.

 

A hand came to rest on his shoulder and he looked up, his movements painfully slow. Barely visible from under his own ruined bangs, the face of Hershel Layton looked back at him.

 

“Do you understand now, Randall?” His voice was surprisingly gentle.

 

Randall couldn't find it within him to snap. There was nothing sharp left. “You win,” he said quietly. “The Masked Gentleman won't be troubling your beloved city any longer.” He glanced down, unwilling to meet Hershel’s gaze. “I suppose this means you can bury me for good now, huh. Have me swept of into the corner so you can carry on with your lives.” He shook his head. “Business as usual in Monte d’Or.”

 

Hershel drew back momentarily, but recovered, his hand never leaving Randall's shoulder. “Randall, please listen to me. Henry never forgot about you. None of us did.”

 

Randall glanced back up at him. At this point, most of the remaining people in the plaza had come to gather around the both of them in a loose circle. He caught sight of Henry and Angela just behind Hershel along with the bright yellows and blues of his apprentice and assistant.

 

“You’re repeating yourself.”

 

“Yes, and I am not going to stop doing so until the point is made clear. Henry stole _nothing_ from you, Randall.”

 

“Then what is all of this?” Randall didn't even have the energy to gesture at the surrounding city.

 

“Randall, Monte d’Or is nothing less than a testament to how much Henry truly cares for you.”

 

“What?”

 

“When I… when you... ” he paused and then took a breath, but was unable to recover his train of thought.

 

Angela stepped forward a bit, but seemed hesitant to come much closer to Randall. She glanced at Hershel. “It's alright,” she said, her voice only slightly more than a whisper. “Randall, when you fell down that awful hole, none of us knew if you would ever come back.”  She rolled her necklace between her fingers.

 

Randall looked down again.

 

“It was… hard on all of us. I’ve done things that I'm… not proud of because of it,” she drew out.

 

Hershel put a hand to his chin as if to hide his expression, but it was clear Angela’s statement had brought back something to the surface.

 

“There was a lot of misplaced anger in Stansbury for a long time,” she said eventually. “I think everyone was missing your light in some way, Randall.”

 

“My… my light…”

 

“Yes, your light. You brought a lot to that town, Randall, even if you never thought so.” She paused as if she was remembering something and smiled, but there was still a sort of sadness to it. “When you fell, everything went to pieces. Your mother ran the Ascot fortune into the ground hiring search parties, but they never found anything. Henry even risked his life to make it all the way down to where they thought we had lost you, but the only thing he found was gold.”

 

She took a breath. “When nothing turned up for weeks, we all thought you were gone, Randall. Hershel left for London and your family had to sell their estate. I don't know where they went. I'm so sorry.”

 

Randall didn't have a response.

 

“But Henry never gave up, Randall. Never.” She held her necklace close.

 

Hershel nodded, seeming to have collected himself a bit. “In fact, the very first building in Monte d’Or was established as a base of sorts for those who came to search for you.”

 

Behind him, his apprentice gasped. “The Reunion Inn!”

 

“Indeed. The reward Henry offered to anyone that could find the man named Randall Ascot attracted countless people from far and wide, and Monte d’Or grew from his solitary inn into the city that you see before you. He even went so far as to make the Mask of Chaos as the symbol of Monte d’Or, knowing that you would have sought out anyone claiming to have it.”

 

“I… no. No that can't be true,” Randall’s breath picked up.

 

“It is the truth and nothing but,” Henry affirmed.

 

“I… I…” Randall scrambled for something, anything. He wanted to run, or scream, or curl in on himself and shut out the light. Maybe all at once. Anything to escape the walls that were closing in on him.

 

“It's alright, Randall. It's over now.”

 

Someone was trying to reassure him, but he couldn't tell if it had been Henry or Angela who had spoken. It didn't matter. He didn't deserve forgiveness from any of them. There was no anger, no harsh voices. No one threw things or raised a threatening hand. He had wronged each and every single person here in immeasurable ways and yet they still managed to meet him with nothing less than genuine care.

 

He slumped to his knees and his fingers sunk into sand. Sand. He looked up and suddenly the people around him were struggling, drowning in dust that didn't exist. He buried his head in his hands, but it changed nothing. Angela still clutched her throat against the darkness behind his eyes. Henry doubled over, choking and sputtering on declarations of love for his friend he would have never been able to voice. Hershel remained stoic until the end, trying to lift his apprentice above the all-consuming tide even as it covered his own body.

 

Randall scrubbed at the his eyes but the vision would not leave him. He was responsible for this. He would have killed them, and for what? For what? Because he was afraid? Because a white mask had come to him and whispered lies in his sleep?

 

“I can't believe what I've done,” he croaked.

 

“There will be plenty of time to make amends once this is sorted out. What matters most is that you are with us now.” It was Hershel's voice that finally broke through the static hanging over Randall's ears.

 

“I don't understand… You should be furious with me.” He dug his fingers into the sand. “I tried to kill you! I was going to _kill_ you, Hershel! You and Henry and Angela and everyone else here!” He slammed a hand into the ground. “Yell, hit me, cart me off to prison, but for God’s sake, stop looking at me like that!”

 

Hershel drew back. He looked hurt, but it was quickly stashed away behind a calm expression. “Nonsense. You were-”

 

Whatever the professor going to say next was stopped dead by a violent rumbling that echoed from the ground beneath them and drowned out any noise that dared compete with it.

 

Hershel’s apprentice clutched his ears. “Professor! What was that?” he shrieked.

 

One of the policemen that had arrived with Henry made a beeline towards the gallery building. “It's an aftershock! Run!”

 

As if on cue, the earth split open once more, hungry for its delayed justice. With a series of sickening cracks, chunks of the city's foundation began to fall away from the plaza behind Randall. His stomach dropped with them, and he went into a panic, unable to move.

 

The rest of the group had taken off across the plaza towards the gallery. They were led by the professor’s assistant, who was carrying his apprentice on her back and making remarkable time despite this. Hershel brought up the rear, but he turned and shouted when he noticed that Randall wasn't with them.

 

“Randall! Run!”

 

Randall did not move. There was water running in his ears as the last few feet of solid ground beneath him began to shake. The earth was calling for its lost prize and it echoed in his bones. Vines that did not exist sprouted from the flagstones that did and ancient writing danced across modern streets. Somewhere behind him, the dependable _clank clunk clank_ of a shovel hitting rock echoed. He wanted to call out to its owner, scream for help but his face was nothing but a mask, sealed lips that could not move. The shadows pressed a finger to those lips, reminding him of promises overdue and unfulfilled.

 

When he fell, he saw through golden eyes. A lullaby that he could not place hummed over and over again in his head as the ruins reached out to finally reclaim what was theirs.


	6. He Who Became Unbroken

Hershel had turned once he had noticed Randall wasn't with the rest of the group, only to see him standing no more than a few feet away from the edge of a chasm that might as well have stretched  down to the heart of the earth itself. Terror bloomed in him.

 

“Randall! Run!”

 

Randall did not move, so Hershel did, scrambling over the still shaking plaza at a breakneck pace.

 

“Professor!” Luke shouted  fearfully at his back.

 

Hershel made it back to his friend just as the last few feet of solid ground dropped beneath him. Randall offered no resistance as it did, tumbling into nothing with an equally vacant expression. The white of his suit jacket flashed in the sun, and Hershel lunged without thinking. His hand met fabric and his grip became steel as it wrapped around Randall's wrist.

 

Randall looked up at him, startled out of whatever daze he had been in. “Hershel…?”

 

Hershel tried to pull Randall back from the edge, but even Professor Layton wasn't strong enough that he could succeed with only one arm. He felt familiar words building themselves in his head. Words that he had once screamed. Words that he had whispered again and again, in mirrors and dreams, and in quiet moments where he wished he could have done everything over again.

 

“Randall, I can pull you up, but I need your hand.” His words were calm but his voice betrayed the fear that raced through him at a thousand miles a minute.

 

For a moment, Randall looked at him. When he spoke, his voice was solemn. “No, Hershel. Let me go. I don't deserve to live.”

 

Hershel's breath came in sharp gasps. He could feel the ground shaking under him and knew it would not be long before it gave out, but he couldn't let go. Not again. They were going to be okay this time. Everything was going to be ok.

 

“Randall, don't be ridiculous! Give me your hand!”

 

Randall looked torn, and his face mirrored the face of the boy in the tattered scarf with golden dreams. The boy who had let himself fall to his death because he believed a puzzle was more valuable than his own life.

 

_Let me go. I don't deserve to live._

 

He had heard those words before, although they had dressed themselves in purple rather than white.

 

_I'm sorry, Hershel, I've let everyone down again, I?_

 

Hershel wanted to scream, wanted to apologize for his failure, for being so weak that his friend believed himself worthless enough to die not once but _twice._ For failing to tell him the words he needed to hear most because of his own walled nature. He had dropped Randall, but it was not the drop that had killed him. It was not the drop that led him to believe that he was nothing to them. And now Hershel was here, in the same place with the same words at the back of his head.

 

“Drop the mask,” he begged.

 

There was no mask.

 

Randall stared at him in confusion and then revelation as he recognized the situation that Hershel had been forced into once more.

 

Tears blurred Hershel’s vision. “Please. Drop the mask.” He wasn't sure if he was talking to Randall anymore. He wasn't sure if he ever had been.

 

Randall’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. He stretched out his free arm just enough for Hershel to see and understand what he was trying to say.

 

Hershel nearly sobbed in relief as Randall’s wordless message reached him. He leaned to take Randall’s outstretched hand in his, but as he did the stone beneath him gave another violent shudder and the section his chest had been resting on broke free and tumbled into the widening ravine. He was pulled downwards and his body connected with the new cliffside, leaving him doubled over with nothing but his legs to hold the both of them. He gasped in pain.

 

“Hersh!” Randall screamed. It was the first time Hershel had heard that name in eighteen years.

 

Hershel held on with everything he had left, but it was barely enough to keep the both of them from the chasm that waited patiently below. There was no way he could pull Randall out. But he had to. He had to. Everything was going to be ok.

 

“Hersh, you have to-”

 

“NO!”

 

It was going to be ok.

 

And then a pair of hands wrapped around Hershel's back. And then another, smaller set. A green sleeve darted out and grabbed Randall's wrist, while another arm in a police uniform mirrored it on Randall's other side.

 

“Henry?” Randall spluttered. “Angela?”

 

All together these people pulled, and Hershel pulled with with them. He found himself hauled up and over the side of the ravine, and quickly ushered towards the safety of the gallery as the earthquake finished its tantrum at their heels. As one, the five of them sprinted across flagstones and shattered bricks, only coming to a stop when they could be certain the ground would not give out beneath them. Hershel was still holding Randall's hand when the group came to a stop. He twitched involuntarily and made some excuse about it, but Randall was too shell shocked to pay attention. He slumped over and said nothing.

 

Henry and Angela stood next to him, equally shaken. Henry in particular seemed to have pushed himself further than he was capable of handling. Eighteen years of managing finances for a golden city hadn’t done wonders for his health.

 

“Well that was a bit exciting, wasn't it, Professor?” Emmy stepped out from behind him. Her hair had shaken loose and she seemed fairly winded, but she grinned despite it all. Hershel could have sworn he saw something glinting in the corners of her eyes, but she drew her thumb across her nose in a defiant gesture and he was no longer sure.

 

“Too bad I had to pull you back up, or else I could have nabbed a shot for my album,” she joked in an attempt to relieve some of the stress in the air.

 

Luke, who had previously been clinging to Emmy’s hand, yelled something indecipherable and nearly tackled Hershel in a hug. He was sniffling and mumbling into Hershel's jacket. Hershel returned the hug, albeit in a much gentler form.

 

“I'm really quite alright, Luke,” he managed after a moment. Luke responded by tightening his hold on Hershel.

 

“Why?”

 

Hershel turned at the sound.  Randall had collapsed to the ground and was shaking, his head in his hands.

 

“Why help me?” he managed between his muffled sobs.

 

Henry sat himself down in front of Randall, his legs folded under his knees politely. He still hadn’t recovered from his mad dash, and nearly tumbled forward as he bent down. “Do you really still not understand?” he managed after collecting himself.

 

Randall sniffed once in response.

 

“It's because we love you, Randall. That's all there is to it.” Henry held up a finger and looked to Angela.

 

She took a moment before understanding flashed across her eyes and she reached to the bag that hung from the shoulder of her borrowed police uniform. She produced a squarish object and handed to Henry, who in turn set it in front of Randall. It was a toy robot.

 

-0-

 

Randall sat on the carpet of his bedroom, tugging gently at the fibers. Afternoon light filtered in through the curtains. He didn’t remember what they were made of, but he knew they were expensive. His father had made that fact painfully clear after he had pulled them down once on accident. He hadn’t meant to, but they were soft and he couldn’t keep his hands away from anything with a pleasant texture for very long. Unless it was an expensive set of curtains. Those frightened him now.

 

His idle moment was interrupted by the piercing sound of someone yelling in the hallway. He hated sounds almost as much as he hated curtains. Sharp and staticy and always in the way of where he needed his thoughts to be. He brought his hands to his ears but it was no use. The sounds didn’t stop. He scrunched his face and tried to go back to the carpet, but noise demanded center stage whenever it was present, and no amount of touching or tapping could ever shove it back into the wings.

 

He couldn’t hear what was actually going on as he stood up and moved towards the door. He couldn’t focus. It was all just awful colorless sound and he wanted it gone. He pushed open the door to find one of his family’s housekeepers standing with her back to him in the hallway. Madeline, it was Madeline, he realized after staring at her primly curled hair for a moment. Facing her was Henry. Madeline was going on and on about something, nearly puncturing the air with her accusing finger. She was clearly very angry about something, but Randall only managed to process snippets of her conversation. Something about thieves. Or the master of the house? He wondered if he had even heard that right. Henry simply stood opposite her, his eyes filled with tears as he tried to argue with whatever she was saying.

 

Randall took another moment for himself, looking back and forth between the two of them before he remembered he what he was trying to do in the first place. He tugged at the back of the Madeline’s sleeve. The noise didn’t stop. He pulled harder.

 

“What in—?” She whirled with a surprising amount of force, but nearly stopped dead upon realizing who was behind her. A smile flashed onto her face as if it were a trained response. “Why it’s young Master Randall! We are so terribly sorry to have disturbed you!” She looked incredibly flustered. “In fact, Henry and I were just on our way to come see you.”

 

She turned to Henry, who was suddenly very busy counting the floorboards. “Henry has something to say to you, don’t you, Henry?”

 

Henry clutched his hands behind himself in a protective manner and sniffed.

 

“Henry.”

 

“I’m sorry for stealing your toy, Master Randall!” His words tripped over themselves and Randall had to take a moment to sort them out in his head.

 

“My toy?” Randall asked slowly. He didn’t remember anything being missing, and he always knew where everything was. It was itchy when things weren’t where he liked them.

 

Henry quickly drew his hands from behind him and shoved something in Randall’s direction. It was a toy robot. He started to apologize again, but Randall lost track halfway though. He was looking at the robot. He was sure he had given it to Henry a few days ago. He knew it. He had put his little shovel in the space it used to be in, which meant that the robot didn’t have a home anymore, so it must have been Henry’s.  If he tried to put the robot back, then things would be all sorts of uncomfortable. Henry having it just felt right. Like the curtains.

 

“But, Henry, that’s your robot!”

 

“Young Master Randall, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I saw this robot on your shelf not three days ago. Henry must have taken it.”

 

“No, that’s the robot I _gave_ Henry,” Randall asserted. He slipped past Madeline and took Henry’s wrist. Henry blinked in surprise, his stuttering apologies cut short. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”

He pulled Henry with him into his bedroom and shut the door as loudly as he could without out it causing him to cringe. He locked the door just for the satisfaction of it and waited. Madeline huffed something outside for a moment before tapping away down the hallway. Even with the plush carpet, her heels clicked with a fury anyone would hard pressed to match.

 

Randall turned back to Henry, who was still holding the robot in his direction, although his arms were starting to droop. Henry pushed the robot away from himself again. “Can you please forgive me for playing with you toy, Master Randall?”

 

Randall took the robot from him, turned it around and handed it back. “Henry, I already told you, this is _your_ robot,” he said gently.

“But it’s your favorite!” Henry stammered.

 

Randall took a moment. Was it his favorite? It wasn’t on his shelf so he had mostly forgotten about it. He was surprised Henry had remembered. “Well, now it can be your favorite."

 

Henry clutched the robot to his chest and stared at it. If his eyes couldn’t have been described as sparkling, than nothing could. “Thank you, Master Randall! I promise to take care of it and treasure it forever!”

 

Randall nodded, but he was already running towards the shelf. He snatched his trowel off of it and held it up. “Let’s go find some more treasure then!”

 

Henry nodded enthusiastically.

 

“And it’s just Randall, ok?”

 

-0-

 

Randall took the robot from Henry gingerly and turned it in his hands. He didn’t know if people were still talking to him. He was too busy thinking of satin curtains and little shovels.

 

“You kept this?” he asked, his voice wavering.

 

The sun lit Henry from behind as he smiled. “Of course. I couldn’t break my promise, could I?” He gave a small laugh. “Randall, as small as it may seem, what you did for me that day made me realize something very important. No matter how old I get, no matter how far away you go, our friendship will always be my greatest treasure. Thank you for being my light that day, and every other.”

 

Randall pulled the robot close to him. His hands were shaking. He had so many things he wanted to tell Henry, but no words with which to voice them. He clung tighter to the robot, as if the gesture could be a substitute for what he couldn’t say.

 

_Thank you for being my light that day, and every other._

 

Angela had called him a light too, but that must have been wrong, some kind of cruel jest. Everything he touched was a disaster. And yet, here he was, sitting in a city built by a man who had waited eighteen years for a boy he used to know. No one builds cities on passing whims. No one polishes battered toy robots until they shine, again and again for eighteen years because the thought just happened to strike them. And Henry had done just that, all with the same gentle certainty he was offering to Randall as they spoke. It was then that the mask was finally beaten in by gentle hands and riversides, by sleeping bags and broken windshields, by little shovels and mystery flowers, by backpacks and bottle caps, by big hair and suspenders and pearl necklaces; all of them screaming over each other again and again in a cacophony that would no longer stand to be ignored, messages that had been mailed and sent and returned again until finally the door was torn apart at the seams by the sheer weight of them all. It was then that Randall Ascot realized he _meant something._

 

The robot’s tarnished white body flashed in the sun and the roof of the art gallery played at being its twin. Gold and white, masks and robots and cities all became meaningless as Randall realized he knew what he needed to say. Words that meant commitment and time, words that meant there would be no more white wings to carry him beyond responsibility. Words that meant no more masks, no more jackets, no more holes. He looked to Henry.

 

“Do you think… do you think  you could forgive me someday?”

 

Henry smiled and drew Randall into an embrace. “Of course.”

  


Randall felt another pair of hands wrap around him, and then more unexpectedly, another. He heard Hershel’s assistant chattering excitedly behind him after that, and suddenly there were several more people all trying to arrange themselves for a proper hug. He leaned into Henry’s chest and everything became a blur of comforting sounds and gentle touches. Someone ran a hand through his hair in a familiar pattern and he let himself be lost in the embrace, genuinely happy for the first time in as long as he could remember.

 

“Welcome home,” Angela whispered in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write both Hershel and Randall based on my own experiences with ADHD, but if something they do is relatable to you, feel free to see it how you want. (As long as it's not disability-free.)


	7. He Who Dreamed of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to this a lot writing this chapter, so if you wanna start it near the end or loop it as you go or something, here's the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USAQQnQzaSs

Hershel Layton stood in front of a desk in his room at the Reunion Inn, tapping his fingers against the polished surface. It had been three days since the Monte d’Or had witnessed the final miracle of the Masked Gentleman. In that time, Henry had wasted no time putting his mayoral talent to good use. Reconstruction of the damaged areas of city was well underway, and people seemed to take great pride in helping their golden home stand on its own feet again. Many of the attractions were already up and running again, the shining veins of the city once again beating with life after being shocked to a halt. Henry had laughed when he explained how excited people were to prove the City of Miracles couldn’t be bested by something as ‘insignificant’ as the collapse of its entire foundation. Even the Pumpkin Park was working in full swing by the second day. Henry laughed about that as well. He surprisingly gentle when he wasn’t fraying at the edges out of stress.

 

Hershel tapped the desk again. It was really a splendid desk, although a bit too decorative for his taste. Henry had moved him, along with Emmy and Luke into their own suite in the Reunion Inn after the events at the gallery plaza. He had offered rooms in the Ledore home to them, but Hershel had refused as politely as possible. He needed the space, even if it was just the distance of a few minutes by tram car. Henry had insisted that his friends should be given only the best during their time and his city, and so the Reunion Inn was offered as a compromise. Hershel had accepted, bound by the pageantry of being a gracious guest.

 

He sighed and let his eyes wander over the heavily ornamented walls. Usually, he could have spent hours studying something like this, trying to place the artist and period of work, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. He just wanted to go home. He was beginning miss to the scent of aging but well-loved wooden furniture and the rustle of overdue paperwork that he had decided to label ‘in process’ for the sake of professionality. Even filing end-of-year reports would have been preferable to the endless parade of pleasantries and introductions he had to make every night to the biggest names in Monte d’Or in the spirit of accepting their gratitude. A gentleman always made a good impression, but he was tired of deserts and Reunions that had done nothing to quiet the awful alien writing that laughed in his unchanging nightmares. Being reminded of Akbadain so frequently was still taking its toll on him.

 

He had managed to distract himself the last few days by taking his little family of two around to see the most exciting sights in Monte d’Or before they had to make the trip back to London. Luke had been particularly thrilled about the circus, insisting on congratulating each and every animal on their performance backstage before he would let himself be taken back to the hotel for the evening. They had gone to see the carnival parade two nights in a row, because Emmy missed a prime shot for her album and wouldn’t forgive herself over it until Hershel had laughed and promised they could go again. They had avoided the casino street for the most part, which Emmy used as a bargaining chip to get Hershel to take them to the Pumpkin Park a second time. She had spent the entire night absolutely terrorizing several servings of cotton candy and taking pictures of Luke getting sick on the spinning teacups. At some point, Hershel nearly lost his hat off the top of the roller coaster and had decided to call it a night, which earned him a chorus of ‘aw’s from both of his assistants.

 

He smiled gratefully to no one, but it made him feel a bit better all the same. He didn’t know what he would have done without them. He wished he had words to tell them how much their support meant to him, but he knew already that Professor Layton would never ask for help, so he took them to parades and parks twice instead of admitting his vulnerability.

 

Hershel glanced up and caught sight of himself in the mirror that hung over the desk. He looked as exhausted as he felt. He wondered if perhaps it was time to return home, and then sighed. Returning home meant awkward calls to Henry and organized farewells. Returning home meant words. Polite words and appropriate words. Always more words. He was very very tired of words. He was used to letting others fill in the blanks, enthusiastic purples and then gentle reds that had faded into adoring blues and sturdy yellows. There were always voices that could fill the spaces where his thoughts lost their connections, but he couldn’t be allowed to simply listen when business of such a personal nature was involved. He couldn’t hand Henry or Angela a wooden block and ask them to solve it while he searched for the words that had made Professor Layton famous. That trick only worked on so many people, and it would never fool the person who had taught it to him.

 

He sighed again. He hadn’t seen Randall at all since the incident in the plaza, and now that the guilt and surprise had drained out the bottom of him along with most of his other emotions, he didn’t know if he even wanted to. He had admitted some things to Randall in that moment that he wasn’t sure Professor Layton was ready to admit, and he had no idea how to handle the follow up to that. Adrenaline combined with the raw emotion of a boy that had been caged for eighteen years made for an interesting to mess to clean up, and he didn’t know if he was even prepared to do so. He didn’t even know if Randall wanted to see him in the first place. He hadn’t called or visited, and although Henry had insisted several times that Randall kept asking about him, he wasn’t sure. Henry was bound by the same intricate dance of etiquette as Hershel was, and sometimes etiquette demanded a white lie or two.

 

He felt himself reaching for the brim of a hat that wasn’t there. He hadn’t built a city. He hadn’t even visited a grave for eighteen years. He had moved to London and built himself a name in the nook that Randall had carved out. He wouldn’t have wanted to see himself either. In fact, all he wanted to do was pack his things and leave the moment the sun stepped out from behind the horizon, but a gentleman wouldn’t run in the night. A gentleman would say his goodbyes. Professor Layton would say his goodbyes.

 

He picked up the phone. He knew it would be easier in the moment. It always was. He just had to get past this unreasonable dread. He stood absolutely still for a moment or two as he built himself up for the task and then dialed the number for the Ledore mansion as quickly as he could manage. The phone rang once, twice, three times, four, but it seemed in this case, Monte d’Or, or at least the man in charge, had indeed missed him. He checked the clock on the wall. It was too early for the household to have retired for the evening, so Henry must have been out. He put the phone down with a sense of finality. He would try again later, but he had the sinking feeling he would be spending yet another day in Monte d’Or. He made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a hum and sat down at the desk, which was already littered with a small tower of assorted reports that had spilled from his trunk.

 

-0-

 

Hershel didn’t know how much time had passed when he thought he heard a knock at his door. He had slipped off into staring at the wall blankly after reading and re-reading a poorly worded essay on an artifact he couldn’t even remember the name of. The noise was so quiet he wondered if he was playing tricks on himself. He looked down at the paper on his desk and tried to find where he had lost his place. Somewhere on page five, perhaps.

 

The knock came again, and this time it didn’t stop. Hershel stood up from the desk with a pensive look. Luke always waited before knocking a second time and Emmy never had to knock more than once. He checked the clock. It was far too late to be a stranger, unless something had gone incredibly wrong. He walked to the door and opened it, feeling an anxious cloud fall over him.

 

Hershel was looking at at the ground to avoid eye contact, and noticed the man’s shoes first. They were polished and clearly hadn’t been worn often, or outdoors. Above that was a well-ironed shirt, and then glasses with square frames, red hair trimmed and tidied in a neat cut. It took him a moment.

“Randall?”

 

The man in front of him nodded enthusiastically. “You can’t be telling me all it takes to fool the great Hershel Layton is haircut and a new suit!”

 

It was frightening how much Randall resembled the boy he once was, in both his appearance and manner, and it made Hershel painfully aware of just how much he himself had changed.

 

Hershel found himself tensing involuntarily. “Of course not. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” It was an automatic response, unbefitting of the man who had once been Randall’s best friend. Walls and shells to hide the bruises within.

 

Randall looked a bit disheartened at the response. “Nothing more than the crime of wanting to visit you, Hershel. Angela wouldn’t let me out of the house until I had rested up all proper, though.”

 

Hershel nodded and held the door open. A gentleman’s response and a gentleman’s expression. He was glad for the practiced ease. Going through the ropes was easier than confronting the man who stood in the doorway.

 

“Oh, I almost forgot!” He withdrew his hands from behind his back and gave Hershel a sheepish grin. He was holding a bouquet.

 

Hershel stared at it.

 

“It’s sort of like a peace offering,” Randall began making excuses almost immediately. “The flowers were Angela’s idea, but I picked the colors.

 

Hershel took the flowers from him but remained silent. They were green. Carnations if he could remember correctly, but he had only been in habit of buying flowers for a few years of his life, and he had always bought yellow or red ones. Warm, like she was.

 

“Thank you,” he added, remembering there was in fact a person trying to speak with him.

 

He set them on his desk and the way that they lay there, resting atop the unfinished work, journals and letters and any number of other things, mirrored another bouquet he had laid to rest on a grave with dreams of one day writing those very things. His hands shook. That grave was empty and its symbolic occupant was here. Alive. He was alive and acting just as Hershel had imagined he would on days when the light caught just right in some tree or across some river. Days when he woke in the morning to an empty bed and thought about all the things that would have been different if a butterfly had flapped its wings. He wanted to shove it all in a trunk and throw it down the hole in the center of the city. Eighteen years of sitting on top of that trunk while the monsters in it howled and pulled chunks of him into its depths, and he was supposed to just smile and go back to being the teenager who held shovels and hummed whenever his friend spoke?

 

He figured he should want to scream, or howl, or whatever it was people did when they were pushed to snap, but he just felt numb. He wished for the world to become static. He wished for rest, but the world didn’t indulge him. He wished again, and then he was static himself, slipping from himself even as he stumbled to the ground. Something rang in his ears, but he was falling, falling, clinging to anything that passed him, writing and robots falling through trees and tears, anything and everything that didn’t make sense. Dreams that held him with no care for day or night, as nonsensical as a wonderland filled with his own shortcomings. Eighteen years of monsters that lived in trunks and high schools, with sneering eyes and blaming tongues, eighteen years of dreams and heart attacks in the night as something, everything, and nothing slipped from his hand again and again and he was meant to be ok?

 

“Hersh! Hersh! Hershel!” Randall shook his shoulders and Hershel felt the static rattle in him.

 

Hershel couldn’t tell what was real anymore. He struggled to call some sort of automated reaction, some mechanical worker that could tend to his walls, but Randall was here and touching him. Randall was here and all the words he might have said, all the things he might have done broke free from the trunk and threatened to tear his walls down.

 

Drop the mask.

 

“This was my fault,” he whispered.

 

Randall was trying to move him towards the bed, but couldn’t even manage to get him upright.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Drop the mask.

 

“I killed you.”

 

Randall stopped pulling.

 

“I killed you,” Hershel repeated, starting at his hands.

 

Randall took his hand. “No you didn’t.”

 

The static was closing in, squeezing his lungs until his breath only came in shuddering jolts. He held Randall’s hand with a steel forged from a desperate need for control, as if he could wrap a hand around his own emotions

 

“You… couldn’t possibly understand.”

 

Drop the mask.

 

“If I… if I had just told you… if I had been there when you needed me…”

 

“Hersh, you were always there, I was just too stupid to see it, please…”

 

Drop the mask.

 

“I loved you, Randall. I should have told you when it mattered.”

 

The static crashed over the last free part of him and the world became white noise as he waited for a response he was afraid to hear.

He was met with warmth and a pair of arms that pulled him closer, out of the harsh white and into an embrace. The world within Randall’s arms was the restful dark, quieting the things that threatened to devour him from the inside out.

 

“I know.” Randall held him tighter, running a hand through his hair. “I know.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Hershel whispered. He didn’t know if he was apologizing for the things that had been, or the things that could have been. He was trying with everything he had left to keep himself from sobbing into his friends chest, but the mask had dropped and the walls went with it. He clung to Randall’s frame as if it were the last thing left in his world.

 

“It’s alright, Hersh. I’m right here.” He let his hand settle on the top of Hershel’s head as he let eighteen years worth of monsters free. “Everything is going to be ok.”

 

-0-

 

Randall wasn’t sure how long he had sat there for, pulling at the seams on the bedspread. At some point, Hershel had collected himself and ended the moment between the two. He was in front of the desk now, standing on too much formality to let himself sit down. Randall wished he would. He hated the distance that Hershel had thrown up in between them. He knew it was unreasonable of him to expect Hershel to be even remotely the same person after they had spent nearly a quarter of their lifetimes apart, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t painful to watch. There was such a weight on Hershel’s shoulders that Randall felt he might crumple under it himself. He wondered how much of that weight he was responsible for and picked at his nails. Neither of them seemed to be willing to disturb the silence.

 

“You bought me flowers,” Hershel said eventually.

 

Randall smiled. “I bought you flowers.”

 

Hershel looked somewhat embarrassed. Randall felt the awkward feeling spread from his fingertips as well and he curled them, remembering what Hershel had just admitted to him. The flowers might have been in bad taste, he supposed.

 

“It’s… not like that. I already told you, Angela suggested it. They’re from all of us, really. Angela and Henry and I.”

 

“Another gratitude note?”

 

“More of a ‘we’re very very sorry for being so selfish’ note.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Thank you, Randall,” Randall teased.

 

“Thank you, Randall,” Hershel replied, deadpan.

 

Randall laughed at the familiar sarcasm. “I knew you were in there somewhere.”

 

Hershel hummed.

 

Randall nearly laughed again out of the joy of hearing that sound again, but managed to keep it to himself. “I, uh…” His expression dropped. “We, actually. We’ve been talking. Henry and Angela and I. About a lot of things, really.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“They told me about what happened after I fell, and god I—” He took a breath. “I’m so sorry, Hershel.”

 

“Oh. That.” Hershel reached for a hat that wasn’t there.

 

Randall picked at his fingers again. His thoughts were racing and he knew if he started to speak, he probably wouldn’t stop. “It wasn’t your fault. I’m so sorry.”

 

“I… would rather not have this conversation.”

 

“Please. I need to say this.” He had to take responsibility, one step at a time, and it started here. With this.

 

Hershel held a breath for what seemed like ages before letting it go. The world clung to every second. He simply nodded.

 

Randall sat up a bit. “Thank you. I’ll try to word this in a way that doesn’t make me sound like a complete fool, I promise, just hold on.”

 

Hershel nodded again.

 

“I’ve realized… a lot of things in the last few days, especially some things about my place in all of your lives. Being forced to nap for a solid three days gives you a lot of time for self-reflection,” he chuckled nervously. “And I have to apologize, firstly for not apologizing sooner, and secondly but much more importantly…” he trailed off. “For… for never realizing just how often you were there for me. I mean, I knew you were there, I saw you were there, I loved when you were there, but I…” He looked at his hands.

 

“When Henry started talking about lights, something clicked. I have no clue what it was if I’m being perfectly honest, but it was there and it didn’t stop clicking.” He felt something welling up inside him and he bit his lip. “You were my light, Hershel, and I gave it away for a letter.”  
Randall had desperately wanted to keep his composure for as long as he could, but it was already slipping. He ran a hand over his eyes, but he couldn’t stop his tears. “I’ve made so many mistakes,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I…” he fumbled and then the words came back to him. They were not his. “I should have told you when it mattered.”

 

Before Hershel had broken himself for eighteen years over it, before Randall had lost himself. Before the pain and the distance, when the only things in the world were shovels and puzzles and lights.

 

Hershel looked up at the ceiling for a long time. He didn’t have a hat to hide behind, so he let his tears run down his face in silence, challenging the world to say something about it. It did not rise to meet him. The night remained as silent as ever, and even the moonlight seemed to fear being too loud as it played just so on the edges of the curtains and across the room.

 

Hershel sat down on the end of the bed next to Randall. He did not make eye contact when he spoke. “I suppose in some respect we have both… made many mistakes.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Hershel looked up then, and there was that distance in his eyes, that sadness that Randall no longer had the tools to parse. “Thank you,” was all he said.

 

Randall took his hand and held it as if it were a fragile moth, afraid that it might fly away at the slightest breeze. “No, thank you.”

 

Hershel looked at him, and for a moment Randall was afraid the ravine that had been carved between them by time and their own hands might widen, but Hershel hummed and let himself lean against his friend. It was in that moment that Randall realized there was nothing he wanted more than to span that guilty distance. He would pull the sun down from the sky if it meant the heat could forge his jagged edges into something that was worthy of being loved, if it meant this endless sand would become a glass bridge to carry him to where he needed to be.  
It would take time, and it would take pain. Anything that was worth anything always did. But he knew in some part that he had brought that pain upon himself, and if it meant that he could be a sun for him, for them, a true sun and not the golden sort that was grinning somewhere across the city, he would just have to take that risk.

 

Randall pulled Hershel close to his chest. Above the eaves of the Reunion Inn, the stars sang of things that had been or could be, and the inn swayed to their tune, creaking in an oddly comforting rhythm. As he listened, he was reminded of older homes and wooden bones that he no longer knew the fate of. He could almost swear he heard singing, and not the silent songs the stars shared among themselves, but a gentle humming that swelled up within him. He didn’t know where he had heard it, but it came to him with a sort of familiar ease. As he hummed along to the music in his head, he felt Hershel stiffen and then relax in his arms. He kept humming.

 

When the stars had wrapped up their concert and said their last goodbyes, and the only visitor left in the Reunion Inn was the night itself, Randall finally remembered the words that had been sung to him so long ago.

 

“And though the night may howl and bite, I'm here now my dear, I love you, sleep tight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Level 5 can clown all they want but in the end letting your characters heal is so important to me, so like. Here we are. I hope you enjoyed it, my goal was to 1-hit ko every single person who read this with that last line.


End file.
